


so i can look at tomorrow's sky with you

by raspberrybeanie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (kind of monster everyone really), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Kagerou Project Fusion, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, M/M, Monster!Jon, Non-Chronological, Time Loop, i see your monster!jon fics and your jon goes back in time fics and i raise you this, most of the major character death is temporary but... tagged to be safe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24960199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raspberrybeanie/pseuds/raspberrybeanie
Summary: For years, there have been stories of a monster of countless eyes that retreated long ago into a never-ending world.For years, a small but not insignificant number of people have been going missing on 18th October, every year.What most people don't know is that these things are linked; on that date, the never-ending world draws in the dying, and sometimes, very rarely, it allows some of them back out.The Magnus Institute for paranormal research has been looking into this phenomenon for years, but a small group of its research staff may be much closer to the heart of this mystery than they realise.Meanwhile, the monster can only watch, helpless, as the cycle repeats and repeats and repeats.( or: maybe nobody asked for a tma kagepro au, but do you really expect me to let all those shared eye motifs go ignored? )
Relationships: Everyone & Everyone, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 82
Kudos: 86





	1. autumn mist daze

**Author's Note:**

> whats up everyone its me here back on my bullshit with the fusion AUs. idk i love kagepro and tma and a week ago i put shinigami record on loop and smashed my face into the keyboard and this happened
> 
> in all seriousness i do want to note a couple things before the fic gets underway! first of all, this fic is intentionally written in a non-chronological order, jumping around different points in time (and different timelines) throughout the fic, so things might seem a bit weird and confusing at first. they will (hopefully) all become clear by the end!
> 
> second of all, and most importantly: this is a Kagerou Project AU and as such the plot WILL deal with elements such as **(temporary) major character death, violence, suicide** , and other dark topics (though nothing that isn't canon-typical for either TMA or Kagepro). if you are likely to be triggered or otherwise upset by this content then i would strongly suggest that this is not the story for you. i will be including more detailed content warnings for each individual chapter but please, PLEASE take the time to read through them and reflect if you are in a place to engage with such content before you start reading this fic. 
> 
> (on a lighter note, while this fic is gonna go to some dark places, most of that major character death is not going to stick and i promise that there is a happy ending waiting at the end of it all!)
> 
>  **content warnings for this chapter:**  
>  \- memory loss  
> \- brief description of the start of a panic attack  
> \- canon-typical negative self-talk  
> \- swearing  
> \- major injury (not described in detail)  
> \- body horror/transformation horror

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The sky is so dark.

Martin shoves at the door in front of him, and then almost lands flat on his face when it swings open easily under his weight. That's strange; it looked so much heavier standing on the other side of it. One of those proper solid old wooden doors, the ones you only get in old buildings. Like the ones in…

The ones in where? Martin can't remember.

Now he's through the door, he can't remember why he's here, either. 

That's stupid. A few seconds ago it was the most important thing in the world for him to get _through_ that door, and now he's through, and he can't even remember why it was so important!

Why was it so important?

His heart starts pounding fast and unsteady even as his thoughts start to spiral away from him, and there isn't enough air, and then a stray thought snags on the jagged edges of his fragmenting brain shouting: _no, you need to be counting your breaths you idiot._

Oh. That helps, actually.

It looks like he's in a library. Or something a lot like a library. There are shelves with books on them, at least, even if some of the books and papers look like they're just… floating around in midair, rather than sitting on the shelves.

There's a staircase over near the back. It seems a good enough place to start as any.

As Martin climbs, he starts to think that maybe this isn't a library after all. There's a strange sound echoing all along the stairs, static making the hairs on his arms stand on end, the buzzing drone of thousands of voices all talking at once at a barely audible level. When he looks closer at the walls, they aren't walls at all; just row upon row upon row of--

"Tape recorders?"

Tape recorders, all set to play, all at once.

Martin hurries on up the stairs.

They lead him up to another floor of this library that is not a library, but this one looks like it's seen better days. Half the walls are crumbling to pieces, the shelves as well. Martin can look up and see that same dark sky. It crackles above him for a moment, and Martin thinks, _like static on an old telly._

He leans back to dodge a floating tape recorder, ribbons of unwound tape spooling along behind it like some sort of weird jellyfish, and edges further forward on the creaking floor.

Why is he _here?_

"Oh, there you are."

Martin nearly trips over his own feet.

"Who's there?" Martin reflexively pats himself down for anything he can even slightly use as a way to keep whoever or whatever it is away from him, and comes up completely empty. Not even a bloody pen knife. Figures. "Whoever you are, stay back!"

The voice sighs. "If that's what you want."

It's a nice voice, says a thought in Martin's head that he definitely did not ask to be there. Rich and dark under the crackling in Martin's ears when it speaks. It reminds him of--

Martin wants to scream in frustration. He can't _remember_ what it reminds him of.

"Do you know where I am?" he asks. He scans the ruined room for an owner of this weirdly familiar voice. His eyes catch the shift of movement in a shadowed corner.

"You're in a never-ending world," the voice informs him, after a long pause. It sounds… tired. Martin's heart clenches painfully to hear it. "I wouldn't worry. You won't be here for much longer, and you won't remember it once you leave."

"Great. Well, I _am_ worried, and I don't remember much of anything right _now,_ " Martin says acidly, and immediately feels bad about it. Whatever - _whoever_ \- this other person is, they haven't done anything to hurt him since he came barging in here. He should be better than this.

The voice laughs. "No, I suppose you don't. You've made your way here quite late, this time around."

Martin mouths _this time around?_ and then decides that that can wait. Something in that voice sounds so achingly sad that he can't help moving towards that dark shape in its corner, his better judgement screaming at him the entire time. 

Martin's better judgement can take a hike; he knows, he just _knows_ , whoever this is won't hurt him.

That conviction is the only thing that keeps him from screaming once he gets close enough to see.

It's eyes. It's all eyes. The thing, the person, in front of him is human- _shaped_ , he's pretty sure, but in the shadows in the corner all Martin can make out is a dark shape covered in eyes that are all looking directly at him.

Then he blinks, and the eyes are gone. In their place stands someone a few inches shorter than Martin, gazing up at him with eyes a vibrant shade of green. Thick black ropes of wavy hair cascade down their back, but something about the way the faint light catches on it puts Martin less in mind of _hair_ and more in mind of… it feels stupid to think _snakes_ , but that's what his mind settles on. A strange cloak is settled over their shoulders. Martin can't make out the colours under this shadowy overhang, but he can just about pick out patterns; soft, blurry lines of varying hues, and in one or two places, the suggestion of great circles that make him think of more eyes.

It's the eyes in this person's face that hold his attention, though. They're fixed on his face with intent, like they're greedily drinking his features in, and Martin can't shake the feeling that they're looking at him like they _know_ him.

More than that, there's a thought scratching at the back of his mind that he might know _them._

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice only a little higher than normal.

"A question we don't have time for this time." Their head tilts a little, almost in thought. Their eyes don't move from Martin's face. "You can call me the Archive, if you want."

That scratching at the back of his mind gets stronger. 

"That… doesn't sound like a name for a person," Martin says carefully.

The Archive's gaze softens. It doesn't get any less intense; but now Martin feels less like he's being _catalogued_ and more like… he doesn't know. Like a summer sunset on his face, those last rays of the day's warmth washing over him, only if that sunset also had eyes. It makes his breath catch; he doesn't think _anyone's_ ever looked at him like that. 

He doesn't know what to do with it.

"You say that every time," the Archive says, and Martin's almost sure he's not imagining the fondness he can hear in their voice. "You're also right, because I'm not a person."

"What?" Martin gapes at them, something hot and angry welling in his chest, that scratching in his mind reaching a fever pitch, and without thinking blurts out, "Don't - don't say that. Of course you're a person."

The Archive's eyes crinkle up at the corners. Their mouth presses into a line, just for a fraction of a second, before they speak again.

"You say that every time as well," they murmur. "Even the times when you've remembered."

Oh, thank God, so he's _not_ just imagining the gaping holes in his memory. "What does that mean? Why can't I remember?"

"Humans aren't meant to traverse this world the way you do." The Archive sighs, lips twitching into a wry, unhappy smile. "But you do it anyway, every time. It's a miracle that your memories are the only thing affected, but… sometimes I forget who I'm dealing with."

Martin doesn't know what to say to that. His head is _aching._

The Archive's gaze shifts suddenly - Martin feels it like a weight sliding off him as they suddenly turn to the sky above, eyes narrowed. One thin arm stretches out, that strange cloak opening up with it, pointing. "Look." 

Martin looks. The sky above them isn't just dark, now; Martin gasps as his eyes fix on it, the crawling, dancing mass of black and white static sweeping in their direction.

"I'm sorry, Martin, but we're out of time."

"Wait--" Martin flinches and curls in on himself as something white-hot lances through his mind, a sound in his ears like feedback reverberating through a thousand speakers. His head is _splitting._ "No," he manages to gasp out, "That's not right, I was trying to get _here_ , I'm sure I was--" Except that's not entirely right either. He was definitely trying to get here, to this library that's not a library, but that's not just it, he wanted to be in this strange never-ending world because if he didn't - if someone didn't come alone - if _Martin_ didn't--

Then what?

There's a hand resting lightly on his back, another pressed against one of his arms in a tentative gesture of support. Martin didn't notice when the Archive moved into his personal space, but the touch is grounding, now. "I didn't tell you my name," Martin says. "Do we-- don't we know each other?"

If the Archive's unwavering gaze softened before, now it seems to collapse. It's like feeling a wave come down over his head.

"Oh, Martin." The Archive's voice is barely more than a whisper. Martin forgets to breathe as two hands cradle his face with such gentleness that his skin tingles where the Archive's thumbs brush his face. "I feel like I know you better than I have ever known another soul."

Before Martin can react, he feels a brush of something, warm and dry as paper against his forehead. A kiss, over before he has time to register it. Martin blinks and the Archive is a few feet away from him, standing on empty space, staring at him with pleading eyes. 

"Please don't come back to this world, next time," they say quietly.

The static rises around them, and Martin's mind breaks open around a memory.

"Wait. Jon. Jon--!"

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_Shall I tell you a story?_

_Once, long, long ago, there was a monster._

_The monster was not born, as you or I are born. It had neither mother nor father nor brother nor sister. It simply awoke one day in a dark place, a mind suddenly aware of the knowledge of its own existence, and though there were no others of its kind it did not know what it meant to be lonely, for being alone was all it had ever known._

_Now, the monster was a thing of eyes and learning and an endless curiosity, and it was hungry to know all it could about the world in which it found itself. For a few years, exploring the dark cave in which it had awoken was enough to satisfy its hunger. It had no fear of the dark, for the many eyes that adorned its form glowed with their own light, as did the eyes of the twin snakes that crowned its head in place of hair, the better to see all that could be seen. And so it passed the time learning every inch of the rocks and walls of its cavern home, the habits and natures of the other creatures that lived there, until it could tell you anything you might have wished to know about them in perfect detail, should you have wished to ask._

_Once it had exhausted all that the cave had to offer, it grew restless. It hungered for more, and turned its attention to the small gap in the cavern roof, which every day let a bright beam of sunlight shine down into the cave._

_"Surely," the monster reasoned to itself, "There must be more to know out there, where that light is."_

_It was a difficult climb, but the monster was determined, and kept going until it could reach an arm out of the cavern roof and pull itself into the sunlight._

_And so the monster left the cave for the world outside._

~ ⌽ ~

**18th October, 2018**

"I think you might be needed downstairs," Peter says cheerily from just over Martin's shoulder.

Martin yelps, and jumps, and then swears as he bangs his shin on the filing cabinet he just had open.

"Peter," he grits out, massaging his bruised shin. "We've _talked_ about this."

"Oh. My apologies," Peter says. 

Martin glares at him. He's not sorry, and they both know it. Peter has the best control of anyone at the Institute, if he really wanted to not scare Martin half to death by suddenly making himself visible half an inch behind him then he could easily do it. Martin knows it. Peter knows it. Peter just _likes_ using his ability to not be seen to make problems for everyone else.

"Yeah, sure," Martin sighs, because there's also no point in arguing with Peter, about anything. "Go on then, what's going on downstairs?"

"You know, I'm not entirely sure," Peter says absently. "I was wandering past the reception desk and happened to notice Rosie trying her best to calm somebody down."

Martin stares at him for a second, and then realises that no more information is forthcoming. He draws in a deep breath, and prays for patience.

"And it didn't occur to you to maybe go and help her?"

Peter blinks at him, actually having the nerve to look mildly shocked behind his beard. "Martin, you know I can't stand conflict. That's never been my area of expertise. I was actually rather hoping I could convince you to lend a hand."

"There's a surprise," Martin mutters. Peter's other great talent is finding ways to make already existing problems belong to anyone except him. Martin pushes the filing cabinet drawer closed with his foot and strides into the corridor.

"I knew I could count on you!" Peter calls cheerfully from behind him. "Let me know of any developments. Could be something new. It is the 18th, after all."

Martin ignores him. One of the worst things about Peter - and over the years Martin has discovered that there are many, many aspects of Peter's personality that compete for the title - is how he can say something like _there's a distraught person crying in the reception area downstairs_ and just treat it like he's forgotten how to get into his emails again. 

He spots Rosie as soon as he's in sight of reception. She's come out from behind her desk and is crouched down carefully on the polished floor, mindful of her pencil skirt and high heels, with one arm around a shaking woman whose hair is coming loose from its braid in great clumps. Rosie spots him, too; Martin sees her face melt from worry into relief.

"Oh, Martin, thank goodness," she says as he approaches them both. "I was about to try and call Elias, but I didn't want to leave her like this." She turns back to the woman on the floor, rubbing a hand comfortingly up and down her arm. "Here you are, love, you'll be alright. Martin works with the research team here, he can help you."

Martin privately thinks that after Peter, Elias is the last person he would call to help in a situation like this. But he knows better than to say that, and instead joins the two of them on the floor, mindful to keep a safe, non-threatening distance away.

The woman is crumpled listlessly against Rosie's side, still shaking. Her face is a blotchy, tear-stained mess, and Martin's heart goes out to her; the poor woman looks completely drained, staring off into a point somewhere underneath the ground.

Martin swallows. Her eyes are a bright, vivid green.

_It is the 18th, after all._

"Hey," he says, as gentle as he can make it. "What's - um, what's your name?"

The woman's eyes flicker over to him. Martin watches as they fade back to a deep brown.

"Naomi," she says in a hoarse voice. "Naomi Herne."

"Okay, Naomi," Martin nods. "D'you… d'you want to move somewhere more comfortable, or d'you just want to stay here for a bit?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Martin sees Rosie look at him askance. Part of him immediately wants to apologise to her, make up for the inconvenience somehow before making himself scarce, and if it was just Martin by himself then maybe he would. 

It's always been easier to summon up a backbone when there's another person in the equation, though, and right now, if that means Rosie has to deal with a distraught woman in her reception area, then so be it.

Naomi is quiet for a moment. "I think," she says. "I think I'd like to move."

Martin nods, and pretends he doesn't see Rosie breathing a sigh of relief. "Okay! Okay. Um. I can take you through to-- there's a waiting room near the office area that no one ever uses, it'll be quiet there. Rosie, could you do me a favour and tell Jon and, and-- I don't know, Basira maybe? To meet us there?"

"Of course, Martin." Rosie nods, gives Naomi Herne's shoulder one final squeeze, and gets to her feet, looking glad to be able to extricate herself from the situation. Martin holds out a hand, and after a moment of hesitation Naomi takes it, gripping his hand tightly as she stumbles unsteadily to her feet.

"I can walk," she says, dropping his hand as soon as she's upright. "I think. I don't - I honestly don't even know why I've come here, it just - it just _felt_ right."

"That's okay," Martin says, trying to sound reassuring, and like he actually knows what he's talking about. "I think we can help."

~ ⌽ ~

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The fog is so thick.

Martin stumbles forward, one hand blindly casting through the space in front of him. He can barely even see his own hand; the fog presses in so close that it swallows his outstretched arm. The grass beneath his feet is wet and overgrown, and Martin's jeans are soaked halfway up to his knees. He's not sure he can feel his toes anymore.

Wait, why is he here?

Martin stops, calf-deep in cold, wet grass, and stands there.

"I was trying to find someone, right?" he asks, words falling dead as they hit the fog. That sounds right. He's definitely trying to find someone. Someone important, definitely. But trying to reach for a name or a face, he comes up with nothing. Just fog.

"Okay, no, that, that can't be right," he says, trying to squash that familiar bubbling of panic. "If they're that important, I can't have just _forgotten_ them, that's not right. I wouldn't." The fog is silent; the only thing Martin can hear is the rasp of his own breathing, and far-off, somewhere far, far off, the distant roar of something that might be the ocean, or a lone car tearing down a country road at night. Martin swallows, and keeps walking. "Maybe if I carry on, I'll remember something else," he tells himself. "Maybe I just hit my head, and it's short-term memory loss. That can happen."

 _Or maybe,_ he thinks, _you're just a bad person who's never actually cared about anyone._

The dull roar is closer now. Much closer. Too close.

Martin looks to his right, sees the fog on that side is _glowing_ , and then a pair of hands grab his arms and yank him back. Martin's hair is scraped back away from his face as the speeding bulk of a car streaks past him instead of through him.

"That was close," says a voice behind him. Martin feels his arms being released and spins around to stare at his rescuer.

He's a young-looking man, with deep-set blue eyes the colour of a summer sky, and lines around his mouth that suggest he's normally someone who does a lot of smiling. He isn't smiling now. He looks pale, and haggard through the fog, and he's staring back at Martin like he's the most amazing thing he's ever seen.

"I've never seen anyone else here," the stranger says. "I didn't think this place let that sort of thing _happen._ Right up until I grabbed you I thought I was hallucinating again."

There's something about the eyes, the shape of this man's jaw, that's familiar. Martin watches his mouth quirk up into a pale imitation of a smile, and suddenly the static hits him.

"Oh!" he gasps, as his mind suddenly shifts, all at once. "You - you're a Lukas!"

The man's smile drops.

"Oh God," he says, "which one of my family was it?" He grimaces, running a hand over his jaw. "I cut myself off from them _years_ ago, but I guess I can't escape the _strong family resemblance._ " 

"Yeah, no, sorry--" Martin pushes the fingers of both hands up behind his glasses, rubbing at his eyes as the memories cram themselves back into the spaces in his head. "My name's Martin, I work with Peter. Worked with Peter?" His mouth twists, and he pulls his hands away from his face, pushing his glasses back into place. "Doesn't matter, he's awful and, _really_ not important right now - you're Evan, aren't you? Naomi Herne's Evan?"

Evan's eyes - Lukas eyes, but a lot kinder than the ones Martin is used to seeing on a regular basis - widen. He makes a noise like he's just been punched. 

"You know Naomi? She's alive?"

Evan's face is a mess of emotion. Martin can see the hope lurking around the corners of his mouth and the slant of his eyebrows, the sorrow stamped into the set of his jaw. He looks straight into Martin's eyes, like he's daring Martin to be lying to him, and that summer-sky blue is dark with suspicion.

"Yeah," Martin nods, and tries not to flinch as he meets Evan's gaze. Tries to bring to mind every scrap of memory of Naomi he has, how it felt to hear her story, the way she looked when she talked about Evan, and put every last bit of that into what he says next. "I mean, she was last time I saw her. And she's looking for you."

Martin's eyes feel hot. But it's Evan who looks away first, blinking and swaying as if in a daze. His mouth goes slack as he takes in a pained, shaking breath, and he drops into a crouch in the fog, like a puppet with its strings cut. Martin blinks, the heat in his eyes gone, and takes an instinctive step closer, but Evan holds one hand up.

"I'm okay. I'm okay," he says, his head bowed. He lets out a short, breathless laugh. "She escaped. She really escaped. Thank God." He looks back up at Martin now, and there are tears in his eyes. "You know, I thought it would work, I really did, but there was part of me wondering if--"

Evan cuts himself off, and drags in another breath. "Naomi should stop looking for me," he says after a moment, in a more level voice. "I knew I'd be stuck here when I did it, I didn't have any illusions about that."

Martin shakes his head. Naomi won't stop looking. Martin doesn't have the gift of Basira's eyes - even here in the never-ending world, when things start creeping in through the cracks, he can't tell which memories fit in which places, and which ones he might have just made up. But he has a feeling that Naomi doesn't ever _not_ look, for the same reason Martin doesn't ever not--

"I don't think she can stop doing that," he says. He reaches a hand down, offering it to Evan. "She loves you."

"Yeah," Evan sighs after a moment of staring at Martin's outstretched hand. "I know." He takes Martin's hand; his grip is warm and strong, and he straightens up easily. "So, why are _you_ here?"

Martin thinks of vivid green eyes, and a dark sky filled with static. 

"I think… I think I'm trying to find someone too."

"Just passing through? Lucky," Evan sighs, but he doesn't sound bitter. He really is a good person, Martin thinks. "Okay, Martin, I'll help you. Follow the road till you hit a funny-looking tree."

Evan points somewhere off into the fog, down what Martin guesses must be some kind of road. Evan looks back at him, and there's a wry, amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I know, you can barely see it through the fog, but if you keep going along the road you can't miss it. When you hit it--"

"--turn left," Martin finishes for him. Just like Naomi said. 

Evan stares at him, and nods. "… Yeah, that's right. Guess you really have met Naomi." He bites his lip for a second, eyebrows creased together, and says abruptly: "Can I ask you to give her my love?"

Martin's heart sinks. "I don't think I can actually get out of here, either," he says, after a few stops and starts. Hesitant, apologetic. "Just… jump between different parts of it."

"Right," Evan sighs. He sounds like he hadn't really expected anything different, and while that doesn't make Martin feel _better_ about it, he at least feels like a bit less of a disappointment. 

"Okay," Evan says easily, and smiles. It's small, but genuine, a small glimpse at the sorts of smiles that might have given Evan those lines by the sides of his mouth. "I knew it might be kind of a long shot." He reaches for Martin's shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. "Thanks for letting me know she's safe. I hope you find who you're looking for."

Martin smiles at him. He tries to make it a good one, a warm one. It just… seems like the least he can do, for this man, trapped here alone in this never-ending haze. 

"Thanks," he says. 

Then he turns away from Evan Lukas, and walks back into the fog.

~ ⌽ ~

**18th October, 2018**

"So what are we looking at?" Basira prompts, forthright as always for all that she's keeping her voice down. "I mean, is she legit, Jon?"

Jon nods. "I think so," he says in a low voice. He looks tired. More than just normal, baseline levels of Jon tired, at least. But he always looks that way after he's been reading thoughts and feelings from people's heads, and this one had taken a long while. "Everything matches up with what we've heard from others who've entered this never-ending world and managed to return." He shoots Basira a pointed look. "Including you."

Basira nods. "So, two people go in after something that probably should've been fatal, wander around a nightmare, and only one comes out again. With hardly any memories of the whole thing."

"And the eyes," Jon says.

"Yeah, and the eyes," Basira agrees. 

"And the date's right," Martin sighs.

He glances over at Naomi, sitting in a chair by herself in the corner furthest away from them, a blanket draped over her shoulders and her hands wrapped around a mug. After she managed to get through her story, she quietly said that she didn't want to be alone. So the three of them have retreated over to the other side of the room now, talking in hushed voices and trying to balance the task of giving Naomi space without isolation.

"We should call the police," Martin says. "Even if it's just to report Evan as missing."

"They won't find anything," Basira shoots back immediately. "If they really went in while they were still in the car, it'll still be in there with him. And once the police hear we're involved it'll be an instant Section 31. No one'll touch it."

"I _know,_ " Martin says, testily, then sighs. "I know, you're right, that's probably part of why she came straight here." He shoves his hands in his pockets to stop them fidgeting. "Hospital, then? Or, or I dunno, she's got to have family somewhere, right?"

"I get the feeling that before Evan Lukas, she was very much the solitary sort," Jon says quietly. 

Martin opens his mouth, then closes it again. Jon would know, probably. After all, Naomi hadn't managed to tell her story entirely without help. She'd tried; said she was determined to get the story out, if there was even the slightest chance of them being able to help Evan. But she'd barely been able to make it through a single sentence half the time.

That's where Jon's ability comes in handy, Martin guesses. He doesn't really know how he feels about the idea of just being able to… _know_ what people are thinking or feeling, at any time. No, that's not true. The truth is, it makes him really uncomfortable. Conversations with Gertrude had always been nerve-wracking for the exact same reason, the few times Martin had had to have them.

But it's not like Jon asked for it. And since he's started to get a handle on it, he's always made a point of asking before he does it. Martin thinks that has to count for something.

It's helped Naomi, anyway. He thinks.

Jon is looking at her now, frowning the way he does when he's trying to puzzle out the truth behind some new account or piece of evidence. It's definitely one of Jon's most endearing faces, and Martin has to fight back a smile.

"Maybe…" Jon says slowly. He looks between Martin and Basira. "Maybe she can help."

"What?!" Martin says, much louder than he meant to, and when the other two glare at him, hisses at a much lower volume, "Sorry, what? She's _traumatised,_ Jon!"

Martin looks to Basira, hoping for backup, but finds her looking thoughtful.

"No, I think Jon might be onto something," she says. "Action's a great antidote for despair."

"Whoa, whoa, okay. In case you both forgot where we work, none of us are therapists!"

"Yeah," Basira nods, "But what therapist is gonna believe her? Besides, you said it yourself, she's got the eyes."

"Yes, which means we should have a full set, going by all the sources that actually go into detail about the abilities possessed by the entity that allegedly went on to create that world." Jon sounds like he's trying very hard to keep his voice even. "If Ms. Herne did come out of there with the ability to pinpoint the location of anything or anyone - we, we could actually stand a chance of finding a way back into the damned place."

Basira raises one perfect eyebrow. "You think that's what she can do?"

"I - well, I'm, I'm not sure exactly?" Jon stammers. Basira has that effect on people. "But it lines up with what we know."

Martin can't believe what he's hearing. In fact, he's decided that he's heard enough.

"Well," he mutters. He's trying to sound like he's making a point, because he _is_ , but he has the annoying feeling that it's coming out sounding incredibly petty. " _Basira's_ got the eyes, and we've never been able to pin down what hers do."

"There's the deja vu," Jon points out.

Basira rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I've had deja vu all my life, Jon. It isn't an automatic sign of something supernatural." She folds her arms, tapping her foot softly on the carpeted floor. "Alright. Say you're right, and she finds a way in. We've only ever found evidence of it opening on the 18th of October every year, right?"

"I know," Jon sighs. "It doesn't give us much of a window."

"She's only had her eyes for two hours, max. She won't have the control she needs."

Her control really isn't the point, Martin thinks with a flare of irritation. But it sounds like Basira is working up to coming down on his side after all, so he'll live with it. Even so, there's one thing neither of them have mentioned, and while Martin really, really doesn't want to be the one to bring it up… someone has to. 

"I, I really think we should think about the part where we've only ever heard of people being able to make it in when they're about to _die._ I don't - I really don't think this is a good idea, Jon."

"No," Basira counters, "the idea's not bad. But we can't go in half-cocked on this. We'd have to be completely certain, and have a solid plan. I know where you're coming from with this, Jon, believe me--"

"I know you do," Jon frowns, an edge in his voice.

"--So you get why I'm saying it, yeah?"

Jon sighs."… I do. You and Martin do have a point." He doesn't sound _happy_ about that, but Martin will take it for what it is. "I suppose if Evan really is in there like the rest… then from their perspective it won't matter much if we do wait another year on our end."

Basira nods. "Right. Time doesn't mean anything in there."

Jon doesn't say anything. The lull in the conversation stretches long enough that Martin starts feeling the tension.

"… We can always give her our details when she's ready to leave," he says, not really sure where he's going with this except that he wants Jon to know that he still supports him, even if Martin doesn't agree with him about throwing Naomi Herne straight into the heart of their ongoing investigation hours after she lost her fiancé. "I mean, you know, if we're right about our theory with the eyes and everything, then, she'd probably come back here sooner or later anyway, right? If she does come back, we can ask her for her help then. Give her time to, you know, work through it first. From, from what you said, Jon, it sounds - it sounds like it was _horrible_ for her."

"It was, Martin." Jon's voice sounds so heavy when he says that. "It was."

Quiet falls over them all again. Then, after a moment, Basira pipes up.

"… so," she says, contemplatively. "Evan was a Lukas, huh. Who's gonna let Peter know?"

~ ⌽ ~

**18th Octo̘͐b̧̭̋̒er̘͐,̫̌͌͜ ̝̓͜͝2̹̓0̻̪̩̮̦̽̇̑̈́̈́1̡̳͈̞̮̊͊̐́͠8͎͓͙̝͚̓̈͋̐͝**

Basira comes round to a dark sky and a deep, dull, throbbing ache in her abdomen. 

_Hell,_ she thinks, and then, _move. You have to move._

Rolling over is hard, but she does it. Even as the pain flares white-hot, enough to make her growl loudly in her throat, she does it. "That's it," she pants. Grits her teeth and begins crawling, one arm after the other. "Just keep moving. No time to lie here and wait for someone else to help you."

Under the pain, under the effort, she knows it won't matter soon either way. But that's the talk of someone who's ready to give up. Basira is _not_ ready to give up.

The sky flashes above her, but there's no thunder. It's not lightning. It's static.

Pain lances through her head, sharper and more intense than the ache in her gut, and for a blinding instant her eyes _burn_ and all she can see is wave upon wave of different, identical static-covered skies.

"Shit," she hisses, thrown out of her rhythm of one arm in front of the other. "We blew it again."

Someone's laughing. Basira doesn't know how far she's managed to crawl, but it's not far, not so far that just lifting her head should feel like a heroic effort.

It's Eve. Standing there, _laughing._ No, she thinks, another wave of static burning through her eyes, not Eve, _Elias,_ and God knows Basira wishes she had Melanie's knife right now. 

And in front of Elias--

"Jon," she tries to call, but trying to raise her voice sends the dull burning in her body into a fresh roar of agony and turns his name into a wordless grunt of pain.

Jon turns, and it's him, and it's not.

 _He's all eyes,_ Basira thinks, _he's nothing but eyes._ Bright, vivid green eyes that glow with a power that Basira can feel as it washes over her. But not focused on her. The weight of their gaze skims over her head, but it's not _for_ her, doesn't actually press down on her as all of those eyes stare at nothing. The eyes aren't for her, and neither are the black shapes writhing around Jon's head with eyes of their own, and neither are the wings stretching skeletal and phantom-like from Jon's back, staining the air behind him with colour and the ghostly shapes of even more eyes. Jon is crumpled on the ground, shaking head to toe, and Basira's own eyes burn again and she can see countless Jons layered over this one, all of them caught in the throes of terrible, painful transformation.

"Jon," she whispers. Basira's ears and tongue are crackling with static.

Jon's eyes - just _his_ eyes, the ones he's always had, the ones that sit where eyes _should_ be - finally focus on her now. Even that much feels like being pinned down. Basira stares at him, and Jon's eyes stare back, glassy and terrified.

 _I'm sorry,_ he mouths.

And then all Basira knows is static.

░░░▒░░▓▒▓▒▓▒▓▓▓▓▒▓▓▓▓▒▓▓▒▓▓▓▓▒▓▓░▒▓░▒▓░░ ░ ░

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you made it this far, thank you for reading the first chapter!
> 
> i've had the concept of a TMA/kagepro au kicking around my head for a while but after seeing [this incredible PV](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eTgXtPstOQM) the other week, the idea really began to take shape in my head until before i knew it i had a whole-ass outline. i know where it's going and how it will all end and i'm excited to keep working on it. you shouldn't need to be familiar with kagepro to enjoy this fic, but for any secret kagepros who might be hiding out there in TMA fandom, i hope you enjoy the ways i bend the kagepro mythos to suit this AU's needs...
> 
> next chapter: rainy city yesterday!


	2. rainy city yesterday I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the eagle eyed among you may have noticed that the chapter count has gone up! this is because i realised that what i was writing for the second part of this fic has become way too long for a single chapter. 
> 
> (this means that you now all get THREE chapters of fluff-with-a-side-of-plot before the plot really starts kicking up instead of just one, so... hooray??)
> 
> **content warnings for this chapter:**  
>  \- description of a Vast-typical wide open space  
> \- temporary memory loss  
> \- very brief allusion to suicide  
> \- canon-typical peer pressure (its Tim and he means well but... yknow)
> 
> (please let me know if there's any other warnings you think need tagging that i might have missed.)

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The sky is so dark.

Martin doesn't know how long he's been staring at it. He just realises, suddenly, that it's there, and so is he, staring up at the clouds rolling overhead like they're actually going to tell him anything.

Where is he?

Martin looks down, and screams.

There's nothing below his feet. Just more endless sky, more rolling dark clouds. Martin squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable impact, before he realises that he isn't actually falling.

He cracks open one eye.

"Oh," he says aloud. "I'm… okay, I think?"

It still makes him sick to look down and see nothing below his feet, so he tries not to look for too long, but a few experimental jumps are enough to convince him that he's standing on solid… well, not solid ground, definitely not that, but solid something. Solid nothing, maybe.

"Am I dreaming?" he asks the emptiness.

No answer but the sound of the wind. Martin shrugs, and starts walking.

"Suppose I must be dreaming," he says. It makes him feel a bit daft, talking out loud when there's obviously nobody around to answer him, but then that's part of the point, isn't it? There's nobody around to answer him. "People can't just walk on nothing outside of dreams. Or cartoons, I guess. Unless I'm dead?"

Oh. Not a nice thought. 

"Nah, I can't be dead. Or - I _might_ be dead? I'd remember dying, wouldn't I?" Martin stops, dead still in the middle of nowhere, and wracks his memory. Wouldn't he remember it if he'd died? That seems like a pretty big thing _not_ to remember.

What is the last thing he remembers? Martin stares up and up into the endless darkness of the sky above, and tries to think.

Sasha's notes, hidden in the safe at the back of Elias's office--

Elias's lips curving in a smirk as his eyes flashed green--

The cloudy sky above, the wind rushing in his ears--

"Oh God," Martin whispers, bending double. That's right, that's right, he'd _jumped._ "Oh God, I, I'm - I'm definitely dead."

Except-- no, not properly dead, right? It's the 18th. Was the 18th.

Okay then.

Martin kneels down, and then flops onto his back, trying to calm the beating of his heart. Pretty shitty excuse for being dead if he still has a heartbeat, he thinks, and can't help the puff of laughter that escapes him at the thought. Well, he's done what he set out to do. Made it to the never-ending world, alone. Nobody to cross back over carrying a fragment of monstrous power for Elias to do - whatever Elias wants to do with it. Jon will be okay.

Jon will be _okay._

"It's not the _worst_ place to spend forever in, I suppose," he says, and ignores the way his voice wobbles a bit. He's not going to think about how empty this place is. "Just a whole load of sky. Kind of nice. Even if I wish it wasn't so cloudy." He's _not_ going to think about how alone he is here. "Could've been a whole lot worse, some of the stories the others have told about what they remember about being here." He's _not_ going to think about how he's never going to see any of them again. He's _not_ going to think about how he's never going to see Jon again. "This is just sky. Easy."

He's not going to cry. If he starts crying now he's not sure if he'll ever stop. He's not going to spend eternity _crying._

"It's just quiet," he says, stubbornly ignoring the way his voice catches.

"Oh. Another one," says another voice, and Martin almost knocks himself out on the nothing beneath him.

"Jon?!"

Martin's ears are crackling, his heart leaping into his throat as he rolls over and scrambles back to his knees. Jon can't be here. He _can't_ be here--

The person looking down at him is not Jon. 

It _could_ be Jon, if Martin took his glasses off, squinted, and tilted his head to the left a bit. Same warm brown skin, same jawline, even the same height, as far as Martin can tell from where he's still down on his knees. But the Jon he knows has his dark wavy hair kept short, not cascading down his back. The Jon he knows doesn't have scars dusted over a disturbing amount of his visible skin, a great many of which look unnervingly like closed eyelids. And imagining the Jon he knows parading around the place wearing a cloak banded in greys and browns and thin threads of rich dark burgundy and faintly shimmering teal is laughable.

"I wanted to see why I was so upset. But I'm not so sure I understand."

The voice is wrong, too, a could-be-but-isn't Jon. It's the same pitch as Jon's, hits the same cadence and carries that same rich timbre, but Jon's voice doesn't make Martin's ears pop and crackle with every word he speaks.

"Wait," Martin says, as the crackling in his ears fades and he realises that this looks-like-Jon-but-isn't just said something that makes no sense. "Why _you_ were so upset?"

The person stares down at him with piercing, vividly green eyes. Frowns, and says, stiff and almost offended: "No."

Martin is not in a place where he can parse whatever _that_ means. And being looked at with those eyes is like being pinned down with a physical weight.

"… Ooooookay," he says slowly. And then it hits him: an odd creature in the never ending world, probably not human, eyes that exact shade of green-- "Wait. Hang on, you, you, you're--"

"Yes?" the creature snaps. "Just spit it out."

The crackling static in Martin's ears builds in intensity, enough to make him wince, but he almost laughs. _That_ sounded like Jon. Martin's earliest memories of Jon, at least. Back when Jon had first joined the Institute, when everything he said brimmed with irritation. 

"You're the thing-- sorry, I mean - the one with eyes. From all the stories."

"Oh." The static settles. The deep, abiding frown does not, and neither does the weight of those bright green eyes. "So you've heard those?"

"Yeah." Being on his knees is starting to feel a bit awkward now. Martin clambers back to his feet, brushing himself off. "I mean, some of them. Are they true?"

The eyes narrow. "Some of them."

Martin nods, reasonably, like he's not coming face to face with the creature that has been the subject of a myriad folktales and urban legends for years, not to mention a sizeable amount of his workload. Like this creature doesn't also bear an uncanny resemblance to someone he's close with.

He's going to be here for eternity, he reasons. A never-ending world. He might as well get to know them.

"What should I call you?"

Martin doesn't think about it before asking. The stories, the accounts, the reported sightings, none of them mentioned a name, ever. Maybe if he wasn't _here,_ he'd cringe at how unprofessional it sounds, that this is his first question to one of the world's greatest paranormal mysteries. But he is here, and he's always going to be here, and Martin--

Martin just wants to know. He's always wanted to know.

Judging by the way their eyes widen, they weren't expecting that, either. They take a step back, the folds of their cloak fluttering sharply, like a pair of wings, and then their gaze turns thoughtful. Martin waits.

"You can call me the Archive," they say, eventually. "If that suits you."

"That doesn't sound like a name for a person."

The Archive smiles, grimly. "I'm not a person."

"What?" Something about that - it gets under Martin's skin, somehow. Finds the same hidden place where he keeps his anger and frustration from every time any of the others have called themselves monsters, or the way Elias looked when he talked about Jon, and - and it's like someone's turned a pressure gauge. "Get out, of course you're a person!" He gestures at the Archive with both hands. "I mean, yeah, you're a person with, with eyes that make me feel like I'm being peeled like an orange or something, but. Y'know. Still a person."

The Archive stands there for a few seconds with their mouth hanging open in a round 'o'. It's endearing.

It also reminds him, painfully, of Jon, and Martin's heart aches.

Those few seconds pass and the Archive composes themself, recovering the scowl they had earlier.

" _You're_ a person," they say, archly and pointedly. Martin doesn't miss the distinction there. _You're a person. I'm not._ "A person called Martin Blackwood."

Well, _that_ throws Martin for six. "Uh. Yeah," he gapes, a sensation not unlike ice water trickling up his spine. "How'd-- how'd you know who I am?"

"Oh, I--" The verbal stumble comes out of nowhere, something bashful flitting across the Archive's face that's almost comically at odds with the cool frown they've been maintaining. "I, I've seen you. Quite a lot actually."

"What, with those eyes of yours?" That icy feeling running up Martin's spine bursts into a flood. "Hang on, can you - can you _do_ that, have you been watching me from in here?"

"No!" the Archive says heatedly. Their face twists. "Yes? Not - not exactly, it's. It's complicated."

Of course it is, Martin thinks, and hopes his irritation isn't showing in his face. "Okay," he says, as flat as he can make it. "I mean, that's creepy, and I'm not sure if I'm a fan." Martin scrutinises the person in front of him, thinking. There's too many pieces here that don't make sense. Not unless he puts them together in a way that makes absolutely no sense at all. 

Martin hesitates for a moment. Then he remembers that he's dead, so he's got nothing to lose by asking stupid questions. It doesn't make any sense, because the differences between Jon and this stranger are as striking as their similarities, and Jon can't be in two places at once, but: "Are you sure you're not… Jon?"

The Archive's face goes completely, chillingly blank.

"… Jon is a human name," they say, controlled and even.

It's a frustratingly obtuse answer. But Martin is also used to being the unwilling carrier of conversations with Peter Lukas. 

"And you're not. Human?"

The Archive's gaze is withering. That isn't hyperbole; Martin swallows as he feels his skin prickling under that intense stare.

"Do I _look_ human to you?"

 _Human enough,_ Martin thinks, but he can fight that battle another time. "Right. Right. Yeah, stupid question, I guess."

The Archive doesn't say anything, which Martin takes as an agreement that it was a pretty stupid question. Instead, they go back to studying Martin's face, just… looking. That weight is back, pressing against his skin wherever the Archive's eyes rest. It's not painful, or uncomfortable, not exactly, but he can still _feel_ it. It doesn't exactly feel good.

Martin's had more than enough of being _looked_ at for one lifetime.

"What?" he asks, not bothering to hide the bite in his voice this time.

The Archive starts. Their frown has graduated from 'irritated' to 'troubled'; Martin can see the way it pinches at the corners of their eyes. 

"You came here _willingly_ ," they say, aghast. 

"Yeah." Martin folds his arms, not ready to have his life choices judged by the one responsible for creating this world in the first place. "So what?"

The Archive takes an abortive step backwards, like Martin's words physically struck them. 

Then they vanish. And Martin is alone.

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_The monster wandered for many years through the forest around the cave, and passed this time in delight and amazement, for it seemed there were no end of things to see and to discover and to learn. Many months alone were dedicated to watching the shifts in colour in the forest, the changes that came from season to season and even minute to minute, as the earth turned and the sun and the moon and the stars made their way across the sky, as they do every day and every night._

_But it was the creatures that lived in this bright and colourful world that most drew the monster's attention. They were so different to the crawling, scuttling things that had shared its home underground, with such variety of shape and colour that the monster could spend many, many hours in fascination just watching._

_Of course, the monster was fled by many of these animals, who were skittish and nervous of unknown things with many eyes, and so it had to be careful to keep its approach quiet. But gradually, as the years passed, the creatures of the forest grew used to sharing their woods with this quiet watcher, and paid little heed to its presence among them._

_But as the animals of the forest grew in boldness, so too did the monster grow in frustration. For as much as it learned through watching, it could not ask the animals why they did the things they did; for as we all know, animals cannot speak._

_"I wish," said the monster one day, "That I could know what these creatures think and feel without the need for words. How much easier it would be to know things!"_

_As it said the words, the monster felt something change within itself. A third snake, dark as the void of space between stars, slithered out of the darkness that was the monster's form to join the others atop its head. And from that moment on, the monster found that the mind of no other being on Earth was closed to it. All it had to do was open its eyes, if it wished it, and it could steal the thoughts and feelings right from their very heads._

_This pleased the monster, who used its new power to touch the minds of the animals that shared its forest home. Through these stealing eyes, it felt their fears and joys and sorrows and listened to their simple animal thoughts, and so it was satisfied, for a time._

_But there was something else that the monster did not expect. For as it watched the animals, so different in their shapes and natures, it nonetheless felt in all of them the quiet comfort that all creatures feel when they return to others of their kind waiting in their dens._

_And so for the first time, the monster truly understood what it was to be alone._

~ ⌽ ~

**9th October, 2016**

"I said I would stay for _one_ round, Tim."

"Oh, come _on,_ Jon. One more drink won't kill you. And besides, as the team's resident horrors in this month of Halloween, it is both our honour and our privilege to buy a round for the two normies at our table."

Tim stands at the edge of the table they've claimed for their impromptu after-work drinks, effectively blocking Jon's escape as he pointedly tries to pull his coat on. Martin and Sasha watch from the comfort of the booth; Sasha with a small, amused smile on her face, Martin with decidedly more anxiety, wondering if someone should step in. 

"I _really_ don't see how that works," Jon is frowning as he shuffles out of the booth.

Tim, ever the master opportunist, sees his chance and slings a friendly arm around Jon's shoulders. "Then I can explain it to you at the bar!" he says brightly. "Off we go."

Jon grumbles half-heartedly, but settles for rolling his eyes and casting a long-suffering look back in Martin and Sasha's direction as Tim begins steering him underneath all the cheap plastic Halloween bunting and towards the bar.

"Tim seems… cheerful."

Sasha sighs, running a finger around the rim of her empty pint glass. "He's overcompensating, Martin, you know he is. You know this month is hard for him."

"… Yeah. Yeah, I know." Or at least, he knows enough. "It's hard to ask him how he's doing with that, though. He just gets all…"

"Aggressively cheerful while also trying to pretend the aggressive part doesn't exist by throwing illusions over it?"

Martin blinks. "Basically, yeah."

He has to admit it, Sasha has Tim in a box, there. Martin thinks he's been getting better, though. There's still moments where Martin feels like he's on a bit of a knife's edge when it comes to Tim, but they're fewer and further between. At any rate, he hasn't been throwing up the illusions so much this year, outside of using them for some very obvious pranks.

"He'll be alright," Sasha says with a confident sort of shrug, and tucks a flyaway lock of curly hair behind her ear. "He's got us around to keep an eye on him."

Martin follows Sasha's gaze over to where Jon and Tim are visible at the bar. Martin can't see Tim's face from their little table, but he looks like he's chatting away to the bartender. Typical Tim, Martin thinks fondly. Jon glances back in their direction, sees the two of them looking, and gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes before mouthing something that might be _someone fire Tim!_

A small, nervous sputter of laughter escapes Martin's mouth before he can think about it. Sasha squints at Jon, and then flashes him a thumbs up with a grin. Jon sighs, deeply, and turns back to the bar.

At least that means he's probably not feeling _awful_ about staying for another one? Martin hopes so, for Jon's sake, and also for the far more selfish reason that he'd quite like it if Jon did stay out with them for a bit longer.

Hm. Martin's next drink should probably be his last. Either him or Sasha should probably check on Jon when him and Tim get back, too, just to be on the safe side.

He turns to Sasha to say so, and finds her still looking over at their friends with an odd, distant look on her face. It's a little like the looks Martin's seen on her when they've been puzzling out a lead together, but… different. It weighs heavier on her face. 

Then she looks over and catches Martin's eye, and her expression smooths back out, her eyes twinkling with a knowing look that spells danger.

"So…" she starts, nodding her head over in the direction of the bar.

"Oh no," Martin says, with a sinking feeling. "I know that tone."

"Then you also know what I'm going to ask you," says Sasha patiently.

"Can we _not_ do this tonight, Sasha? Please."

"I just think it's a shame, that's all. The only way you'll know if it'll work out or not is if you actually ask him."

"Mm," Martin says, in as bored and non-committal a tone as he can muster. He knows Sasha's right, is the thing, and he knows she's saying this because she's his friend and she cares about him. But that still doesn't mean he wants to hear it.

"You know what Tim would say." She pitches her voice down, aiming for something close to Tim's deep boom. "Better than drawing out a will-they, won't-they storyline for ten seasons."

"Ha ha," he says flatly, and sighs. "I just - I don't want to make it _awkward._ You and Tim were awkward for _months_ after you both - you know. Um, sorry. And, I'm not - not that there's anything wrong with that, but it's not like I'd be after just, a-a hook-up, you know?"

"We've been watching you stare at him for over a year," she says with a wry smile. "Believe me, we know."

" _Sasha._ "

" _Martin._ "

"Look," Martin says, feeling his patience beginning to fray, "I'm just - I'm not like you, alright? I can't - I can't be as pragmatic as you are about things like this."

He wishes he could be, sometimes. Sasha makes it look so easy; you'd never catch _her_ nursing hopeless feelings for a co-worker for months and months on end till she's too far gone to see. Not like Martin.

"How true," Sasha teases with a smile. It gentles after a moment, though, and she leans over in the booth just far enough to give Martin's shoulder a slow, gentle nudge with her own. "Just so long as you know he'd be lucky to have you."

Lucky for Martin, Tim chooses that moment to return, a glass in each hand, and saves him from having to do much more than summon up a smile to send Sasha's way.

"Sorry for the wait!" he calls, setting a full pint glass down in front of Sasha before sliding his way back into the booth. "You weren't _gossiping_ about us behind our backs, were you?"

Sasha sends a wicked grin his way, not a single hint of what she and Martin have just been talking about in her face. "Now you mention it, we were just sharing all the things we can't stand about you. Sorry."

Tim immediately launches into a faux-scandalised protest, an easy back-and-forth that he and Sasha lean into with a comfortable familiarity. Martin lets it wash over him as Jon carefully slides onto the worn leather seat with the rest of them, pushing another drink Martin's way.

Jon's own drink is something still and red in a half-pint glass. He catches Martin's quizzical look with a raised eyebrow.

"It's just cranberry juice," he says by way of explanation, his fingers drumming an uneasy rhythm on the table. "I have _no_ desire to hear the thoughts of any drunks in this pub thanks to my own inebriation."

Martin thinks about some of the trains of thought he's ended up on after he's had one too many, and winces. Yeah, he can understand why Jon would be hesitant to risk losing his hard-won control somewhere like this. A pubful of drunk people's thoughts and feelings doesn't sound like a good time at all.

"I'll cover for you if Tim goes for another one," he offers, a belated, round-about apology of sorts for not stepping in earlier. "Who knows, maybe you can sneak out under the table."

"Hm, crawling out on a sticky pub floor," Jon considers. "What a flawless plan."

A couple of years ago, hearing that softly acerbic note in Jon's voice would have had Martin quailing. But now he knows to look for the gentle mockery it is, and when Jon turns a wryly amused smile on him, well - Martin really can't help but smile back.

~ ⌽ ~

**15th November, 2014**

Martin's running late again.

It's his own fault; he's lived how many years in London by now, he should know that just because it's only two stops to Pimlico and then a five minute walk to the Institute, that doesn't mean he can afford to leave at the last minute. He's made it in time, barely, rushing past Rosie's desk with a hurried _Morning!_ and a half-eaten bread bun in one hand that he's pretending counts as breakfast, but that's not the point. It's going to throw him off for at least the whole morning, is the point. 

He's climbing the stairs up to Research, checking the time on his phone for the millionth time, when the lock screen fizzes and Gerry's face covers the entire bottom half of the screen.

"Hear on the grapevine we're getting someone new today," he says, but Martin's too busy trying not to drop his phone down the stairs.

"Gerry!" he protests, fumbling it from one hand to another. He manages to catch it, just. "Come on, just, could you just give me some warning before you do that? Like, ring me or something, _please._ What if I'd dropped you?"

"Then I'd be fine," Gerry shrugs, now small enough to fit his whole frame onto Martin's lock screen. He leans nonchalantly against the side of the screen. "Unless you broke it when you dropped it, in which case I'd be stuck till you hooked me up to another machine." Beat. "And the Institute would owe you a phone, I guess."

"I really don't think they'd replace my phone for me if I dropped it."

"I'd get Gertrude to swing it for you. She loves getting Elias to spend money."

For a moment, Martin considers the hypothetical of the two scariest people in the building going toe to toe over putting a new phone for him on expenses. 

"That sounds worse, actually."

Gerry laughs. "Mate, I keep telling you, if you don't want me in your phone, you need to keep airplane mode on."

"Hm," Martin hums, going back to climbing the stairs. "I'll take my chances. You already promised not to nose around my files or anything, so, you know."

"Yeah, no fear of me breaking that promise. I've already seen enough of your poetry to last a lifetime."

Martin almost drops his phone again. " _Gerry!_ "

"Kidding, I'm kidding." The tiny goth on his lock screen nonchalantly puts both hands palms-up in front of him. Martin glares at him in suspicion. A suspicion that turns out to be well-founded when Gerry grins, all teeth, and adds: "But honestly, rhyming _environment_ with _descent_ was a bit clunky."

Martin's stomach swiftly and efficiently enters freefall. 

"Shut _up!_ " Oh God, you could fry an egg on his face right now. He considers turning back round and jumping right back on the Tube, pull a sickie just this once, but quickly decides he couldn't live with the guilt. He also considers asking Sasha for help warding his phone against supernatural malware, which is starting to look like a more and more attractive option. "That was a first draft, and i-if - if I ever _want_ you to critique my poetry, I'll ask you first. Besides, you shouldn't've been looking to start with."

To his credit, Gerry looks like he realises he took it too far.

"Sorry, Martin. Honestly," he says. "In my defence, I really didn't get that from snooping around any files. Caught sight of that one when you were writing poetry at your desk instead of working that one time and you had rainy mood open on youtube."

Oh. Actually, Martin does remember that. He'd been working late - trying to, at least - but concentration hadn't been his friend that evening, and Gerry had slyly slipped out from behind the youtube logo and said _I won't tell if you won't._ Then he'd sat inside the video box while it played, the rain glitching around his outline. 

_Can you actually feel it?_ Martin had asked after about fifteen minutes, too curious not to, and Gerry had shrugged. _Not really? But it's the closest I can get to proper rain these days, so y'know, take what you can get._

That made Martin feel kind of bad for asking, but Gerry hadn't seemed offended or anything. Actually, it had ended up being quite a nice evening, having another person to make quiet conversation with every so often, when either of them felt like it. 

"… Fine," Martin sighs, because it's kind of a relief in a way, knowing that Gerry had got that information in a normal, happened to see it over your shoulder while we were chatting way, and not a supernatural digital snooping way. "Just - don't do it again? Please?"

He doesn't think that's such an unreasonable thing to ask. Martin doesn't write poetry for anyone else to see it, not really. 

He needs to move them back to a safer topic.

"… So," he says, with forced brightness, "Anyway, what were you saying about someone new?"

"Oh, right." Martin might just be projecting, but Gerry looks a bit relieved to be moving onto something else as well. "Yeah, Sasha and I were having a friendly competition to see who could break into Elias's emails and snoop around the fastest and apparently we've taken on someone new."

"Huh. I don't remember an ad going out for anything."

"Yeah, but I think it's one of those… y'know." Gerry wiggles his fingers sardonically. " _Weird_ ones. The ones where they're here 'cause of something spooky rather than 'cause they dropped a CV in. I wanted to eavesdrop on the quote-unquote interview but Elias'd made sure every bit of technology in the room was turned off." Gerry scowls. "Bastard," he adds, with feeling.

Martin isn't Elias's biggest fan - understatement of the century, there - but he can't help feeling like he had the right of it, this one time. He's wondering how he can tell Gerry this without offending him when he spots Sasha coming down the corridor with a file in one hand and a coffee in the other. 

"Morning, Martin!" She smiles, raising her coffee in lieu of a wave. "Is that Gerry in there with you?"

Martin smiles back at her. It always feels like a bit of a relief, talking to Sasha. She's the one person in the building he always feels like he's on steady ground with. 

"Hey, Sasha." He holds up his phone, so she can see Gerry shooting her a mock-salute from his current place on Martin's lock screen. "Yeah, he was telling me about - he said we've got someone new starting today?"

"Oh, yeah. I think HR have him doing his health and safety at the moment. If we're lucky we might see him around lunchtime." Sasha takes a meditative sip of her coffee, then asks, "Can I steal Gerry off you?" She grins at Martin's phone, something conspiratorial as she meets Gerry's eyes. "I need you to work your magic for me somewhere."

"More digital breaking and entering?" Gerry shrugs. "Yeah, I guess I can take a look. Bye, Martin."

Martin's screen fizzes again, and Gerry blinks out of view, out of his phone and presumably to wherever Sasha keeps hers. Sasha raises her coffee at him again, and then she's heading off down the corridor, humming under her breath and leaving Martin to wonder if he's really the only person in the Institute that cares about things like privacy.

He pulls a face. Oh, _that's_ probably why Peter likes him, isn't it? What a horrible thought.

Martin finally makes it to his desk, and the rest of the morning actually passes by reasonably okay, considering how badly it started. Tim commiserates with him about the Tube, then tells him that he's hidden the biscuits somewhere he's pretty sure Martin will never find them this time. Sasha comes back to the office and they manage to actually get some work done, in between Tim coming up with theories about their mysterious new colleague that gradually get wilder and wilder the closer they get to lunchtime.

"I'm thinking," he says, the three of them stepping out of the building for a much-needed breath of air, the November wind skinning their faces. "I'm thinking, secret cryptid. Got to be."

"What," Sasha laughs, "Like the Mothman or something?"

" _Exactly_ like the Mothman. Picture it: he gets sick of the constant media exposure and all the tourists, so he decides on a nice quiet life working away in a paranormal research job, hiding in plain sight--"

"A nice quiet life?" Sasha raises an eyebrow. "In London?"

"Best place to hide," Tim continues blithely. "I mean, you've lived here long enough. People walk too fast to pay attention to anything weird, and if you're looking for a monster, you're way more likely to check the spooky cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere than your inner-city high-rises."

"Right, 'cause you're such an expert," Sasha teases, rolling her eyes.

"Well, yeah. Bona fide spook, remember?"

Tim points a finger at himself, and his smile is still wide and easy, but Martin can see his eyes are not their usual grey. They are, he notes with a sinking heart, a bright, vivid shade of green.

"You're doing it again," he says quietly, and to his relief, Tim drops the illusion straight away this time. He's still smiling underneath it, but there's something sharp to it, a sardonic edge that makes Martin nervous.

Sasha meets Martin's eyes for a moment, sharing a look of gratitude that he pointed it out, and mutual worry for their friend, and then she reaches out to give Tim's arm a gentle squeeze.

"Yeah," she says, her voice serious. Then she nudges Tim playfully in the ribs. "But you're _our_ spook, so that has to count for something."

"Oh God, I hope so," Tim says, his smile regaining some of its usual good humour. 

Honestly, Martin wishes Tim wouldn't do that. It's not so much the illusions themselves, though he's not going to pretend like those don't bother him at all, it's more that - he doesn't like it when Tim calls himself a _spook_ or a _ghoul_ or whatever other word he's using to describe his situation that day, that cutting edge they have in Tim's mouth. But he doesn't really know how to say that without starting an argument, and that's really not on Martin's list of things he wants to do on their lunch break.

The moment's gone, anyway, Sasha already trying to convince them both to walk just a little farther for lunch to get out of range of Chelsea's ridiculous price gouging, so Martin sighs, and tucks it away for a moment when he has just a bit more courage.

By the time they get back to their little cluster of desks up in Research, their mystery man has finally arrived.

He is, to Tim's great and vocal disappointment, not the Mothman.

What he is - and Martin kind of hates that _this_ is his first thought - is very pretty. Well, no, not pretty exactly, but, very, very nice to look at. 

_We are not,_ Martin tells himself firmly, because he knows danger when he sees it, _going to have a workplace crush on this man._

"Kind of just normal-looking, isn't he?" Tim sighs as the three of them pretend to be cross-checking something together on Sasha's computer. It's a strategic choice; Sasha's desk is the one that gives them the best view of where Gertrude is talking to their newest colleague. Martin does not envy him, not even a little bit. "Cute, I guess, if 'stern schoolmaster' is your thing."

Martin very carefully does not say a word to that.

"Oh, give it a rest, Tim," Sasha says in a low voice, but she's smiling. "It's his first day and he's talking one-on-one with Gertrude right now, he's probably terrified out of his wits."

That is definitely one interpretation of the almost comically serious look on his face. "What did you say his name was, again?" Martin asks.

"Jonathan or something, I think? I dunno, I only really skimmed Elias's emails."

Tim stretches, his plaid shirt riding up as he does so. "Maybe I should go over and rescue him. Make sure she isn't reading his mind or whatever it is she does without him realising. If Gertrude strikes me down, remember me as I was."

"Drama king," Sasha mutters as Tim saunters over to insert himself into the conversation. After a couple of minutes, Gertrude walks off back into her office, the same inscrutable look on her face as always. Martin watches, trying not to be obvious about it, as Tim lays on every last inch of friendly Stoker charm.

Martin tries, very, very, very hard, not to feel jealous about it.

"I can't tell if he's buying what Tim's selling or not," Sasha murmurs from where she is also trying not to look like she's watching. She's right; Jonathan, if that is what his name is, looks stiff and uncomfortable, if ever so slightly less poker-faced than he'd seemed when Gertrude was talking to him.

"Well, that was interesting," Tim says when he walks back over to Sasha's desk. He starts counting points off on his fingers. "Yes, his name's Jonathan but he prefers Jon, no, he hasn't been in London very long, he thinks - yeah, I know - and no, he doesn't want to talk about what brought him to our neck of the woods." He nods to himself, leans forward, and says, in a dark, dramatic sotto voce, "You know what this means?"

"That he's a private person who doesn't want to spin Tim Stoker's wheel of questions?" Sasha grins, innocently.

" _No,_ " Tim intones with quiet glee. "It means that secret cryptid is _absolutely_ still on the table."

"Oh, come on, Tim," Martin says, feeling the sudden urge to defend this stranger. "Not everyone's comfortable talking about themselves at work, especially in a new job! It doesn't have to _mean_ anything."

"Yeah, but Martin, in the loveliest way possible _you're_ kind of an office cryptid, so that doesn't mean much coming from you."

That stings, a bit. Martin shuts his mouth, and keeps it that way.

"You think it might be an eyes thing?" Sasha says thoughtfully. "Anyone in the field with any interest in that one knows that we're the furthest along with unravelling it, seeing as how… you know."

Tim shrugs. "Dunno. Didn't really get that far." He glances over his shoulder, turns back to them with a muttered, "Oh, shit, he's coming to find his desk," and that effectively puts an end to any further theorising about Jonathan-who-prefers-Jon.

It does, however, give Martin plenty of opportunity to see him over the next few days as he settles in. He's not _watching_ him; that would be weird, and really creepy. He's just… noticing things, that's all. That's what Martin does with everyone. Notices little things, and files them away for later, for when they might help. So he notices how Jon mostly keeps himself to himself, working quietly away on whatever it is Gertrude's handed him with an intense frown on his face, like he can tear apart the evidence they have for answers through the sheer force of his irritation alone. He notices how Jon tends to still be at his desk when the rest of them are all on the way out the door. 

He notices, too, how Jon meets any attempt to draw him out with a terse rebuttal; usually a _not now,_ or a _sorry, I'm working._ Martin's not sure he's even seen him take a _break_ over these first few days.

Maybe he's just a really, really intense workaholic, but that won't do.

A few days in, Martin carefully gathers up all the courage he has, and approaches Jon's desk on his way back from the printer.

"Erm. Hi, Jon," he says, and tries to summon up his friendliest smile. "I was just going to sort some tea out for everyone, do you want to pop your order in?"

Jon actually looks up from his work, which feels like a bit of a miracle in and of itself, but the way he looks Martin up and down makes him want to run back to his desk with his tail between his legs. It's not that he's looking at Martin in a _bad_ way, not exactly; he's just got a very intense gaze, Jon has, and combined with how he's always frowning… the end result is just really unnerving.

Unfortunately, having Jon's gaze focused directly on him means that Martin's brain is at leisure to point out to him, extremely unhelpfully, how nice Jon's eyes are. They're green - not weird supernatural powers green, just a sort of dark, forest-y kind of green. They're nice.

Martin reminds himself, again, that he is _not_ interested in developing any kind of office crush.

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin braces himself, only to find an unexpected ally wading into the fray.

" _Martin,_ " Tim says gleefully from behind him, clapping him on the shoulder. "You read my mind. Get one for me and Sasha while you're up, would you? I think Sasha's on coffee again." He turns to Jon, beaming at him with all the force of personality that Tim possesses, which is a frankly unfair amount. "Come on, Jon, you might as well join us. It doesn't even count as a proper break if you have your cup at your desk."

He winks. Martin wonders, not for the first time, how Tim just goes ahead and _does_ that sort of thing.

It looks to have thrown Jon off, too. He blinks, the frown apparently having been stunned right off his face, and then sighs. 

"Very well," he says, sounding surprised at himself. "Since it seems everyone is doing it."

"Lovely!" Tim says brightly. He takes the printout out of Martin's hands and puts it down on Jon's desk. "Thanks, Martin!"

Then he strolls back to his own desk, looking far too pleased with himself for Martin's liking. That leaves Martin to turn back to Jon, alone, somehow muddle his way through asking Jon how he likes his tea while trying not to feel too put out by Jon's short, terse answers, and wander over to the office kitchen to actually _make_ the tea, praying that Gerry wasn't hanging around in anything where he could have overheard that.

When he gets back to Jon's desk, Martin finds him flipping through the printout from earlier with a tiny, yet deep, frown on his face.

"Oh. Thank you," he says, when Martin puts the mug down, as carefully as he can, on the one bit of free space he can see on Jon's bombsite of a desk space. Then he looks back up at Martin, still frowning, and he says, "You realise you've cited all the references wrong on this? They're a mess."

He sounds personally affronted.

"Um," Martin says, hoping he doesn't sound as shocked as he is, "Sorry?" He tries to ignore the dread of _oh God, you've been caught_ gnawing at his stomach, and instead he lies, as cheerfully as possible, "I, um, I had a bit of a late night last night and I must still be feeling it. Guess this one's a do-over."

"Hm." Jon makes like he's about to hand Martin's printout back to him, before he sees that Martin's still holding a tray of mugs and thinks better of it. "If there are a lot of _do-overs_ like this one it's no wonder this place seems to go through so much paper." Jon pauses for a moment, then sighs and puts the printout back down on his desk. "I thought someone ought to let you know."

Then he turns back to his work, and Martin flees back to Tim and Sasha with his face burning.

"Wow," Tim whispers, exaggerating that single syllable for all it's worth. "I thought you were a goner."

"Don't make me talk about it," Martin warns him, slumping forward at his own desk and putting his face directly into the safe haven of his own hands.

He's really not sure what's worse; that his incompetence is apparently so staggeringly obvious that someone could pick up on it straight away, or that it's so staggeringly awful so as to be that much of a disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you once again for reading this far! 
> 
> i wasn't kidding when i said that this update and the next couple of updates are going to be mostly non-chronological slices of fluff ft the og archives crew + gerry with jonmartin and also some plot wheels slowly turning in the background, so... hopefully that's the sort of thing y'all enjoy :'D the og crew get to be friends in this universe because i'm the one with keys to this AU.
> 
> next chapter: rainy city yesterday II!


	3. rainy city yesterday II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy Sunday evening and welcome back for the third chapter everyone! this week we have more og crew shenanigans for you, plus a tantalising bite or two of Lore hidden in amongst the fluff.
> 
>  **content warnings for this chapter:**  
>  \- allusions to canon-typical financial distress  
> \- canon-typical accidental non-consensual mind-reading  
> \- swearing
> 
> (as always, please let me know if something else should be warned for that i might have missed)

**23rd January, 2016**

Martin's pulled his hat on and is half way to the stairs, deeply absorbed in wrapping his scarf around his neck, when he hears Jon calling him.

"Martin."

He turns, a smile already crossing his face, only to stop short as he sees the frown on Jon's. His eyes are bright green; but then again, they usually are these days. Ever since Gertrude. 

"Are you leaving already?" His voice is hard and aggravated. "Had I known, I wouldn't have bothered to hang around waiting for that follow-up."

Martin blinks, letting that hang there for a moment. Then, he lets out a long, contemplative breath.

"Hm." He cocks his head, raises an eyebrow. "Nice try, Tim."

Jon - _Tim_ \- makes a comical sound of outrage, before the illusion melts away and Martin has to look up to meet Tim's eyes at his usual height. He's gawking at Martin, looking somewhere between impressed and disbelieving. 

"What?" he demands. He's also, Martin notes, bundled up way thicker against the winter chill than Martin is. "You're kidding, you saw through it that quickly?"

Martin folds his arms, biting the inside of his cheek in a valiant attempt to maintain his front of cool irritation. If he'd known catching Tim out like this would be this funny, he would have done it _ages_ ago.

"I guess you're not as good at impersonating people as you think."

"Oh come on. What was it? Was I not irritable enough?"

"Mm…" Martin thinks about it for a moment. He _could_ tell Tim that he had him figured out from the moment he'd said Martin's name. Jon's voice tends to cling to the first syllable in a way that no one else does, a way that makes Martin's heart do things he doesn't want to examine too closely. But he is _not_ giving Tim more fuel for that particular bonfire. 

"Nope," he says, and walks on ahead before Tim can see how much he's smiling. "Kind of the opposite, actually."

"Waaaiiit." Tim takes three long strides to catch up, sounding more and more indignant - and more and more delighted - with every word. "Wait, wait, _wait,_ Martin! Is there something you're not _telling_ me?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

This is fun, Martin thinks as Tim hounds him down the stairs. He absolutely will not be able to keep this up for long; his poker face isn't _that_ good, and this kind of playfulness doesn't come naturally to him the way it does to Tim and Sasha. 

But for now, it feels kind of good, beating Tim at his own game for once.

~ ⌽ ~

**8th December, 2015**

"Oh, come on, it's _well_ late and I'm shattered, can't we ignore Institute protocol just this once?"

Jon is doing his very best to ignore Tim as he scans his ID card next to the back door. "If you'd like to be the one to explain it to Elias, be my guest."

"Ohhhh no," Tim laughs, holding the door to let Martin and Sasha head in first. The two of them immediately take their glasses off in a well-practiced, near-coordinated movement as the lenses mist up in the centrally heated warmth of the Institute building, something that makes Sasha laugh. 

"Myopic solidarity," she says to him in a low voice, as they wipe the condensation away with a hastily applied sleeve. Martin chuckles.

Meanwhile, Tim is still going. " _You'd_ be the one explaining it to Elias… with a little added je ne sais quois from yours truly."

As Tim says it, his eyes flash, glowing green in the dim light of the lower ground corridors. There's a shimmer in the air, and then a second Jon is standing in Tim's place, swinging the door shut with a very un-Jon-like smirk on his lips.

"You see why I'm worried," Jon says, in one of the flattest tones Martin has ever heard. "I'd like to get home just as much as you, Tim--"

"That's a lie if I ever heard one," Tim mutters with a wry grin, turning back into himself as he says it.

"-- _and_ ," Jon continues, a waspish note in his voice at being interrupted, "We can all do that much faster if you'd just let me get on with it."

Tim sighs, full-bodied and dramatic. "Giving me just enough time to thaw out before throwing me back out into the cold, Jon? This is cruel and unusual punishment."

"It's really not that cold out," Martin says absently as he readjusts his glasses. 

As one, the other three turn to stare at him, faces stark with varying levels of disbelief.

"Lies and slander," Tim declares, the first to recover. "Jon and Sasha'll back me up."

Sasha rolls her eyes at Tim, but smiles as she says, "Yeah, sorry Martin, it's freezing outside." She wiggles her fingers inside her gloves, as if to illustrate her point. "I'm going to need more than a few minutes standing around in the Institute corridors to warm up."

Tim looks at Jon expectantly. Jon, who is bundled up in more layers than the other three combined. Martin's sure he's got at least two scarves on under there.

"… it is rather cold out," Jon says eventually.

"Okay," Martin laughs, "It's _really_ not." Because it really, really isn't. London winters are mild compared to the ones he remembers from when he was a kid. It must be something about the closeness of the city air still hanging around even once colder weather starts rolling in. He'll step out his flat with a scarf and hat on and wonder why he bothered, half the time. "But we could always put the kettle on before we leave?"

"Hm, nah," Tim says. "You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling." Sasha groans at the reference, drawled out with an almost comically affected veneer of poshness that has Jon rolling his eyes. Tim grins, and asks, "Anyone fancy going out?"

"What happened to being shattered?" Sasha asks.

"Nothing," Tim shrugs. "I just remembered I'm also starving and can't be arsed to cook tonight."

"Oh, good point. I don't know if I actually have anything in the fridge at the moment." Sasha nods to herself, then turns to the other two. "Jon? Martin?"

Jon hesitates, opening his mouth to begin grumbling out some kind of excuse or another. Martin is more than happy to let him, because that gives him time to take a breath and pull out his own well-worn deflection or two. _Oh, sorry, I can't. I've got something else on tonight. I'm just really tired._ He feels awful every time he has to do this, because it's not as though he doesn't like Tim and Sasha. He does. Maybe they're just work friends, but he likes them a lot, and he doesn't _want_ to blow them off with a half-hearted lie. It's not even that he thinks they'd think _less_ of him if he just copped to it and told them the truth, that he's checked his bank account and money is _really_ tight this month, the way it always is in December, they're not like that, it's just… 

Even the idea of saying it is scary, is all.

"Erm, yeah, I--"

"Oh, come on, you two, live a little! Won't be anywhere that'll break the bank. Scout's honour."

Tim does a little Scout salute, hand over heart, and Martin dithers, and Jon - Jon looks between Martin and Tim, with a funny sort of look on his face, and he scoffs.

"You know," he starts, slow and acerbic, "Some of us actually care about the work we do here, Tim. Yes, in fact," he continues, and his voice begins picking up speed, losing some of the careful, crisp notes of academia as he does so, "Ah, actually, I've, I've just remembered that this is going to take longer than I thought, there's something else I have to do before I can leave, and, ah…" He founders for a moment, as the other three stare at him with mystified eyes, and then he looks at Martin. "Martin? I could do with some help, would you mind?"

Martin starts. "Oh, um… no?"

"Seriously?" Tim looks at Jon, an incredulous frown on his face. He opens his mouth, clearly ready for an argument, and Martin thinks that's probably his cue to step in.

"No, Tim, it's - it's honestly fine," he smiles, hoping it's not too strained. Honestly, Martin's feelings are very much a mixed bag at the moment. He's not happy about being asked to do extra work at the end of two long days out in the field, not at all, but - he's also more than a little relieved that Jon has, however inadvertently, saved him from having to lie awkwardly to Tim and Sasha. "I'll catch up with you guys tomorrow?"

"Right, yes, excellent. Thank you, Martin," Jon says, and turns to leave. Tim grumbles something that sounds like _slave driver_ under his breath, but Jon is already pulling ahead down the corridor, either too far away to hear him, or otherwise uncaring. Martin shrugs at Tim and Sasha, and rushes to catch up.

The Institute is an old building, and like a lot of old buildings that are built to have a lot of people in them, it takes on a weird, almost unsettling atmosphere in the evenings, when almost everyone else has gone home. Their footsteps echo on the tiled floors as the two of them make their way steadily up through the floors of the building, pausing to hold up their staff cards to the night watchman near the reception desk and either nod (Jon) or smile (Martin) in his direction.

Jon seems deep in thought, a faintly unsettled look creasing a line between his eyebrows, and Martin doesn't really want to disturb him, so it takes him a while to break the quiet.

"So, um, what is it you needed help with?"

Jon starts, the movement making his bag swing out a bit wider and knock him in the back of his leg. "Ow," he says, and then, "Oh-- um, actually, there isn't anything."

Martin stares at him. Jon looks back, something furtive and sheepish skittering around the edges of his expression.

"What?"

Jon takes a deep breath in, as though fortifying himself for something. "You…" he starts, and stops. Pulls a face, makes a vague movement in the air with one hand. "You were uncomfortable, back there. I, I thought - did I overstep?"

Did he over _step?_

Martin can feel the _no, you're alright,_ sitting on his tongue, but something hard and bitter behind his ribs keeps it there. Jon will have meant well, of course he will. But there's something snagging on the warmth he feels at knowing that Jon cares enough to have made his own very clunky attempt to remove Martin from the situation, a cousin to embarrassment and sibling to shame, and on top of that… 

There's a suspicion that he doesn't really want to entertain, but now that he's thought it it's going to _bother_ him.

So Martin says, "You know, a little bit, yeah?" The words feel harsh and unnatural in his mouth. "How did you know?"

Jon says nothing. Martin's suspicion begins handing out fliers for a recruitment drive.

" _Jon._ "

Jon makes a small, frustrated noise. "I, while I wish I could say something like 'body language' - I think I may have heard it."

Martin feels cold.

"You know I don't like it when you do that."

"I know!" Jon snaps. "I know, I - I swear, it wasn't intentional this time. I'm trying to be better at it. I am. I _am_ getting better at it. I, I just - things slip _through_ , sometimes, when I'm tired, and if my mind's wandering to a certain--"

Jon's mouth shuts with a sudden, quiet pop. "Anyway, I'm sorry, Martin. You're free to - to go home, or go join Tim and Sasha, if you'd rather."

Martin thinks about it. He could just head home, jump on the Tube and go back to his small, quiet, empty flat. 

But he's not that angry at Jon, not really. He really is trying. And besides, as pathetic as it is, when has he ever needed an excuse to spend time with Jon?

"… no, it's okay. I mean, I'm here now. Might even have time for that cuppa, right?"

He smiles, a peace offering, and stands still long enough to see Jon smile back before he starts walking again. 

"… You know, you are getting better at it."

"Not better _enough_ , evidently."

"Jon," Martin warns, because they're heading back to dangerous, well-trodden paths that Martin has no interest in circling round again. "You've already apologised, it's fine. I know you're trying."

Jon makes a low, vaguely argumentative sound in the back of his throat, and then follows that up with: "I honestly don't know how Gertrude handled it," muttered under his breath.

"Yeah, well," Martin says shortly. "Gertrude had it for _decades_ , she had ages to get it under control. Can we talk about something else?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, of course. Um… you didn't actually have any plans that I've inadvertently ruined, did you?"

" _Ha,_ " Martin says, because that'll be the day. "No. Just a thrilling night of passing out before ten."

Oh God, that sounds even worse saying it out loud than it did in his head. He distracts himself with searching for the light switch as they make it through the door into the research office, blinking as the desks are flooded with fluorescent light.

Jon makes a small sound that might be a laugh. Not an unkind one, though. "Oh. Not so different from mine, then."

There's a wry smile on his face as he strides over to his desk, reaching into his bag to unearth the tape recorders and notepads they've been using over the past couple of days. Martin feels something in his chest ease a little. Not that it makes him feel _better_ to hear that Jon's evening plans are as lacklustre as Martin's, but… it feels less lonely, somehow.

"Mm," he says, peeling off his outer layers as he watches Jon empty their collected evidence into the bottom drawer of his desk. "We're exciting people."

"You mean the day job where you rub shoulders with people with literal paranormal powers isn't exciting enough for you?"

Jon straightens up and sweeps by Martin, making a beeline for the office kitchen without waiting for an answer. Martin trails along behind him, and thinks about it.

"Is it. _Weird_ that I don't even register stuff like Gerry popping up in the wires or Tim making himself look like other people as anything unusual anymore?" he asks, going to fill the kettle. "That. That's weird, right?"

Jon is busy inspecting mugs, checking the insides studiously before he passes two of them Martin's way. 

"I really don't think I'm qualified to comment."

"Mm." He's probably right. Jon is, after all, one of those people with literal paranormal powers, and more besides. Martin stares at the faded minutes of old meetings on the noticeboard, listening to the kettle bubble away. "God, I hate this place at night. It's so _spooky_ with all the lights off."

"The paranormal research institute with its own resident poltergeist, _spooky,_ " Jon says, his voice dripping with derision on the word. "Imagine that."

"It is, though! Oh, I forgot, you don't like that word, do you?"

Jon takes a deep breath in through his nose. Martin fights back a smile. Now he's for it. 

"As I keep telling Tim, I just think there are _better_ words we could be using that are a great deal more precise--"

"Oh, here you are!"

Martin jumps, knocking the empty mugs on the counter together with a loud clink. He yelps. Jon shouts, and there may have even been a swear in there. Both of them scramble to look at the door, instinctively moving closer to each other.

" _Sasha!_ " Jon barks.

Sasha - because it _is_ only Sasha, poking her head into the kitchen with her hair emerging, cloud-like, from under her bobble hat - grins apologetically. 

"Sorry, did I scare you?"

"Half to death!" Martin tells her, his heart still racing. "What're you still doing here?"

"Well, I would have just sent a text, but Jon never looks at his phone once he's got wrapped up in a work thing and I was worried he might have dragged you down into the abyss along with him, Martin." Jon glares at her. Sasha ignores him. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know there's been a change of plans? We're grabbing a couple of pizzas and some finger food from Tescos and having a big night in at Tim's place. Sure you boys don't want to join us?"

Sasha's smile is still wide on her face. But it's warm now, not mischievous, and she's looking at Martin when she asks it.

The look in her eyes is not one of pity.

Jon and Martin exchange a glance.

"… yeah," Martin says, "Yeah, why not. I'll, um. I'll stick my coat back on, I guess. Jon?"

"Oh, I--" Jon falters, then clears his throat and says, "Yes. Yes, that sounds. Nice."

"Great!" Sasha wheels around, her phone already out. To text Tim the good news, presumably. "Don't take too long or I'll ask Gerry to turn the sprinklers on."

"Unbelievable," Jon mutters. Martin doesn't really trust himself to speak through the soft warmth flooding his chest; he shakes his head, smiling, and carefully flicks the kettle off before it boils. 

~ ⌽ ~

**27th April, 2015**

"Here's what I don't get."

Sasha stands against a table in the empty meeting room that they've commandeered. Tim and Martin look at her, tapping the end of her pen against her lip as she frowns down at the page of notes and annotations in her own handwriting, and then at each other.

Jon is, as usual these days, conspicuous by his absence.

"What?" Martin prompts, after Sasha spends half a minute lapsing back into a thoughtful silence.

Sasha waves her page at them both. "In all the accounts we've ever managed to study about this monster with the eyes - and I mean almost all of them, it's almost weird to find this much consistency, even if the descriptions are a slog to unravel sometimes - they pretty much all agree on all the stuff this thing could do, right?"

"Uh, yeah." Tim lets his chair fall back onto all four legs, and starts rattling off a list. "You're talking about the mind-reading, the vanishing, the…" he gestures at himself, turning himself bright pink for an instant; Sasha laughs. "And the whatever it is Gerry can do."

"Thanks," Gerry says, deadpan, from where Sasha's hooked the ancient meeting room computer up to a projector, the easier for him to be included. Tim shoots him a thumbs-up. 

"Yeah, sure," Sasha says, barely acknowledging their moment of banter. She's in full research mode; has been for a few weeks by now. Martin thinks that she's a bit on the scary side when she gets like this, all focus and drive. "That's my point, actually. People who've been to that other world and managed to come back out again, they always come out able to do something that matches up exactly with something that this creature was said to do."

"Preaching to the fucking choir, here, Sasha." Gerry throws another minesweeper bomb at the recycle bin shortcut. He misses; Tim makes a sound like an plane going down.

Martin sighs, figuring that someone in the room needs to give Sasha the attention her train of thought deserves. "Isn't that how we figured out the two were linked in the first place?"

"Yeah, but that's not what's bothering me." Sasha is pacing now. "We've only ever seen one manifestation of a particular ability, in very specific circumstances. And this is over _decades._ There's some we've theorised about that we haven't seen anyone come forward with."

"Well, yeah," Gerry shrugs, like it should be obvious. "Do you know how high the odds are of dying in a pair on one specific date a year are? Tim, if you ask me to google it I'm coming to your house through the cloud and frying your Playstation from the inside. I'm not your bloody Alexa."

Tim shuts his mouth. Then he says: "You _wouldn't._ "

"Try me."

"Boys?" Sasha folds her arms, fixing them both with a raised eyebrow. "Focus."

She'd make a good boss, Martin thinks absently. But that isn't really what he's thinking about; something else Sasha said is pulling at him, because it's not _right._

"But we haven't, though," he frowns. "Um, only ever seen one manifestation of each one, I mean. Because, Jon's got the same one as… Gertrude."

And yeah, Martin's had the thought that that _is_ weird, actually. Not just Jon even having the same ability as Gertrude in the first place, but just… the timing of it's all wrong. It doesn't fit the pattern they've established, and on top of that…

Well, on top of that, Gertrude's dead. That's what's so weird about Jon suddenly having her power.

Sasha actually smiles at him. "Yeah, Martin, exactly. But Jon's never been to that never-ending world--"

"Yeah," Tim mutters in a dark voice, "So he _says._ " Tim is smiling. His eyes are also bright green. "I'm not really inclined to listen to much that he's saying at the moment."

"Not the time, Tim," Sasha sighs reproachfully. "What we need to be asking ourselves, is why Jon's a sudden exception to all the rules we know."

Martin can't take it anymore.

"Sorry, should-- should we even be having this conversation without him being in the room? I mean, I bet he wants to know too, probably even more than us."

Sasha, at least, has the grace to look guilty. Tim lets out a soft, derisive sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sasha is the real MVP of the og crew. no i am not taking criticisms on this at this time. also Tim with Decieving Eyes? a Menace(tm). most importantly Martin's comments abt London winters are true and valid, source: i'm a Northerner, trust me
> 
> once again, thank you for reading this far! i'd also like to thank everyone who's taken the time to drop a comment or hit the kudos button on this fic, it's really been lovely to see the response to it so far.
> 
> next chapter: rainy city yesterday III! our last installment of fluff lightly laced with ~Lore~ before the plot and lore really come galloping back in.


	4. rainy city yesterday III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter: awkward confessions! mood whiplash! the plot making a rude re-entry through the wall like the proverbial kool-aid man!
> 
>  **content warnings for this chapter:**  
>  \- allusions to canon-typical financial distress  
> \- canon-typical accidental non-consensual mind-reading  
> \- canon-typical verbal conflict  
> \- Lukas-typical manipulation nonsense  
> \- swearing  
> \- brief mild body horror/transformation horror
> 
> (as always, please let me know if something else should be warned for that i might have missed)

**11th May, 2015**

Martin finds Jon in one of the disused storage rooms in the basement.

It's actually one of the better ones, this time. It's not too dusty and it's got an actual desk in it, for one thing, a little battered and past its best but good enough for Jon to put his laptop on and scatter his notes everywhere the way he'd do over his desk back up in Research. There are also two more desks, worse for wear, stacked on top of each other and shoved against one of the walls right up between some filing cabinets, but Martin decides he's not going to focus on those.

He's been practicing his speech the whole way down here, and then some. Jon needs to stop hiding himself away in weird corners of the building, squirrelling himself away with his work and whatever else it is he's doing until ridiculously unhealthy hours of the night. He needs to stop skulking around the place, avoiding everyone half the time and doing things like _going through their desks_ the other half. He needs to actually come up and talk to them all, like properly talk, no matter how uncomfortable it'll be, because Martin's nerves can't handle much more of this.

Of course, this conviction lasts him up right up till the moment when he actually has the door open, and Jon is glaring at him from behind his makeshift workstation with eyes that are a vivid, piercing shade of green that Martin knows only too well from Tim.

Martin misses Jon's real eye colour.

All his carefully rehearsed words also fly out the window, and what Martin actually says when he opens the door is, "Jon, hi. Um. D'you have a minute?"

God, who is he kidding? Jon's not going to listen to _him._ Martin's convinced that Jon has written him off as good for nothing except making mistakes, considering how many of them he's pointed out in the first few months they've been working together. 

He's not really wrong though, is the thing. It's just that most people just let Martin get on with it, sigh ruefully all like _that'll be Martin, alright_ and then fix them up later.

Jon's glare does something complicated that Martin can't quite read. Gets all weird and pinched at the edges like he's just sucked on a particularly sour sweet, and he says, "Was it Gerry who told you I was down here?"

It was Gerry, who had rolled his eyes and said _Your funeral,_ but who also agreed that _someone_ else needed to talk to Jon. Martin opens his mouth to say so, but Jon is already scowling and muttering, "That traitor," under his breath.

In any other circumstance, it might be funny. It's really not funny right now.

"I, I don't think it really matters, actually?" Martin's stammering from the sheer force of his nerves alone, never mind Jon's glare. But he also feels an almost absurd need to cover for Gerry, one that emboldens him to keep talking. "And, and even if he did, it'd be because he's worried about you. That's not actually a bad thing."

"Is that why you're down here, Martin? Because you're _worried about me?_ "

Jon's tone is so scathing that Martin flinches. "Well, yes, actually. We never see you anymore--"

"Did it perhaps occur to you that there is a reason for that?" Jon cuts across him, and Martin falters. "Well, now you've seen me, and as you can see, I am _fine._ There's no need for you to hover over me fussing, and I am _very_ busy. Don't you have work of your own to be getting on with?"

Actually, Martin's on his lunch break right now. It just seemed like the most sensible way of doing this. Which means, he'd be well within his rights to just walk away now and leave Jon to it. Backing off and letting Jon cow him into submission would probably be easier, in all honesty.

Jon's being stubborn, though, is the thing. And Martin knows a thing or two about stubborn, and right now -

Well, Jon's stubbornness is making him want to be stubborn right back. Martin folds his arms.

"You can't just hide down here forever."

"I'm not _hiding._ "

"Okay," Martin nods, undeterred by the venom in Jon's voice. "Avoiding us, then. Avoiding everyone, actually. Jon, I know what happened to Gertrude hit you hard--"

"Do you." Jon actually shuts his laptop now, the sharp sound of the lid coming down a match for his scorn. "What do you _actually_ know, Martin?"

And somehow - somehow, that's the tipping point.

"I know you can't stay down here as a long-term plan!" he says, heat creeping further in with every word. "I know that Sasha's spending every minute she's not at work looking for a new job, but when she's here she's looking into every new lead like her life depends on it or something. I know that Tim has been - you know, yeah, he's been _impossible_ to talk to recently, and I get why, I get that he's got his own supernatural baggage that's making all this worse, but honestly, Jon? You haven't been helping by refusing to talk to any of us!"

Jon makes a handful of aborted attempts to get a word in edgeways, but ends up just staring at him, mouth open in a slack "o", as Martin builds up steam. It's probably the most he's ever said to Jon at any one time, ever, but the more words come spilling out the less Martin feels like stopping them.

He's just - it's so _frustrating_ , watching everyone fragment apart like this, watching Tim cast dark comments everywhere behind a green-eyed smile, watching Jon find more and more remote places in the building to hole himself away in, watching everyone just - _refuse_ to talk to each other about it, and brush Martin off when he tries to suggest it. And, okay, fine, he's used to that, expects it, even, when it's just a normal day in Research and he accidentally says something that makes it a miracle that nobody's figured out he lied on his CV to get in here, but -

Jon blurts out, "Hang on, what?" 

His eyes are wide, and there's an almost dazed look on his face. Was he even listening?

"Seriously? I know you don't rate my observations, Jon, but--"

"No, I mean-- you lied on your CV? Really?"

Jon almost sounds impressed. Martin has no time to appreciate it. His stomach lurches, his mouth freezes, half-open, and then his brain goes into overdrive combing over every single word he just said in the past minute, scrambling to remember if he's just gone and dropped himself in it thanks to his stupid temper.

"I, I, I didn't say anything about that." The ground feels very, very far away all of a sudden. "I didn't say _anything_ about that, Jon, how did you-- oh God, did Tim tell you? He swore he wouldn't tell anyone--!"

"Martin!" Blessedly, Jon puts a stop to it before he can start spiralling any further. He's stood up at some point, coming around the side of his battered old reclamation of a desk, something on his face that might be nausea, or maybe horror. "Martin, no - I - Tim did not tell me. Or, or anyone else, I assume, I - I swear, I just heard it. Right now."

Silence falls. Jon's hand tightens on the edge of his desk as the implications of what he just said start to sink in.

Martin feels a little dizzy. "… Did you. Jon, did you read my mind just now?"

"I… I…" Jon falters, not meeting Martin's eyes. "I suppose I must have done."

Jesus Christ, Martin is an idiot. This was such a bad idea.

"That's not okay, Jon. I - I could get _fired_ if the wrong person knows about that."

Jon's head snaps up almost comedically fast at that. He stares at Martin in bewilderment, his eyebrows pinched close together. "That's your concern?" he demands, aghast. "The possibility of you losing your job and not the - the horrific invasion of your privacy?"

Well, when Jon puts it that way it _does_ sound ridiculous. But it also sounds like someone who's never had to worry about losing the roof above someone else's head as well as his own. 

"No, yeah, I mean," Martin lets out a heavy rush of air. "Of _course_ that too, but I - you don't understand, Jon, I really need this job."

"I wouldn't tell anyone," Jon says immediately. His voice is softer than Martin has heard it sound - well, ever, let alone directed at him. He rallies himself and says in a stronger voice, "I mean it, I won't tell anyone. I am - I am deeply, deeply sorry, Martin. Believe me, I'm - I'm sorry."

Oh. Well. That's something. Martin's heart rate begins to approach something close to normal again as he watches Jon fidget at the side of his desk for a moment, before he shuffles up on his hands to perch on the edge of it. It might just be the least formal Martin's ever seen Jon be, but it's not like this can get any weirder. 

Jon sighs. "Now do you understand why I'm down here?"

"Did you read my mind just to get rid of me?" Martin says, dully. He should go. He should really, really go.

"No!" Jon sounds genuinely horrified by the idea. "I can't - you don't understand, I can't control it, I--"

Jon breaks off with a little rumbling noise of agitation. "Shockingly," he says a moment later, in a voice much closer to his usual clipped, sardonic tones, "it would seem that sudden and inexplicable manifestations of supernatural power are not of a sort with flatpack furniture, and don't come with, with an instruction manual, or even a guide on where to find the off switch." He presses his hands down into his thighs, his face twisting. "This is just how things are, all the time. At least down here it's quieter, and I can actually get some work done."

Martin thinks about this.

"So," he asks, tentatively, "It's not just - it's not just one person at a time, you can hear everyone?"

That sounds horrible, he thinks. And suddenly, a lot of things start making sense.

Jon nods. "Everyone and anything they happen to be thinking and feeling. I - I don't know how far my range stretches, but it's…"

"… overwhelming?"

"Yes. That's a good word for it. And despite appearances, I am also aware that the last thing most people want is to have their thoughts pawed over by some kind of - supernatural voyeur. So, here I am. Everyone is out of my hair, and I am out of theirs."

Oh, Martin realises all of a sudden. Under all of that irritable bluster and the constant nitpicking, Jon is - he's kind.

He's also a bit of an idiot if this is his solution, because it's not actually solving anything at all.

Martin has these thoughts in quick succession, and then he remembers that Jon can probably still hear him thinking, and he has to stop looking at Jon after that.

"Except," Martin points out instead, "Things aren't actually working like this."

"No," Jon agrees, with a dark, huffed laugh. "You've made that perfectly clear."

Martin fixes his eyes on a darkish stain on the ceiling that might be old damp. "Wouldn't have thought privacy invasion was that big of a concern for you, seeing as how you went through everyone's desks last month," he says lightly, and then realises that he might still be more annoyed at Jon than he'd thought. He catches Jon shifting out of the corner of his eye, as if in protest, and adds, "Don't try to deny it, Jon, Gerry caught you at it."

"… Okay, fine," Jon says, in a stiff, strangled voice. "But that was different. I - I had to be sure of something."

" _Really._ None of us had anything to do with what happened to Gertrude."

"No, I know that!" Jon snaps. "I've known that for a while now. That's one thing that _this_ has been useful for, at least," he adds, self-deprecation mixed in with the impatience. "I've been bombarded by enough of all your thoughts to know that you all had no hand in it."

Well, good, Martin thinks. Except, that's not actually what he wants to say, not really.

"… I'm sorry, Jon. This must've been awful for you."

"No more than the rest of you. You all worked with her for far longer than I did."

"Yeah, but none of us passed out and woke up suddenly able to do what she did." And isn't that just it? They've all been talking about it, about how weird it is, about what it could mean, but outside of that first week, after everything started turning into an argument when they tried, who had actually bothered talking to Jon about it?

There's one person who definitely should, at least. Martin fidgets, and says, "I - I do think you should at least think about talking to Tim about that, by the way. You're two of the only people in the world who could possibly understand what you're both going through, it just seems silly--"

"I _sincerely_ doubt that Tim has any interest in talking to me, for a number of reasons."

"… Sure," Martin sighs, because that's true enough. "And, and maybe he's not wrong about some of them? Like the desks. But I - I actually think he's being unfair about bits of it. And - and it's not just me saying that, Sasha agrees with me."

"So what are you suggesting?"

What _is_ Martin suggesting? Honestly, he hadn't even been sure he'd make it this far. Half-expected to have been sent away with a flea in his ear by this point.

"Come upstairs and talk to us," he says. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? "All of us, I mean. We're all on the same side here. We can find out why this happened together, maybe, maybe even help you learn to get it under control. I mean, Gertrude managed somehow. And, and it's not like Tim's control is perfect either. You don't - you don't have to be alone in this. That's what I'm suggesting."

Jon is quiet for a moment. Martin chances a look back at him, and finds Jon gazing at him with an intent, puzzling look.

"Doesn't it bother you that Tim could be right?" he asks abruptly.

"What?"

"Think about it, Martin," Jon says with a grim ghost of his usual scowl. "I can read the mind of every single person in this building. Whether I want to or not is immaterial, I can still do it. But it doesn't go two ways. No one can have a peek into my mind and see what I'm thinking. So," he shrugs, arms falling to the side, "So, logically, Tim is quite right to be suspicious of me. I can't blame him for it. It must have crossed your mind, too. People have murdered for less."

Martin's jaw drops. Is that what Jon thinks? That they all think he's some kind of - some kind of monster or something, that murdered Gertrude Robinson for her power? 

"Okay," Martin says, reeling a little from that. "Okay, well, first of all, I think you know it hasn't crossed my mind."

"But you can't say it doesn't bother you," Jon persists.

Martin has the most exasperating colleagues in the _world._

"Listen to yourself!" he bursts. "Okay, yeah, the idea of anyone being able to just - just listen in on anything I'd rather keep to myself, yeah, of course that bothers me. But I mean - I also come to work every day with a man who spends most of his time being invisible, someone who literally lives inside a computer, and someone else who could make himself look like anyone he wanted to. And, and Gertrude had the power to listen in on the inside of my head for years, anyway. If this sort of thing bothered me that much I could've quit years ago, I just - honestly, Jon, did you murder Gertrude?"

"No!"

"Okay. Well, that's good, and neither did I," he says shortly. "And I believe you."

Now it's Jon's turn to gape. "Just like that?"

"Just like that. That's how trust works, Jon," Martin says pointedly, before he can get too flustered about it. He sighs, because the past twenty minutes have been _draining,_ he's not going to be able to concentrate on anything this afternoon, and it really is starting to feel like he's done all he can.

And besides, his stomach is really starting to grumble now. "Anyway, I'm going for lunch, because I still have forty minutes left of my break if I'm lucky. Do you want a sandwich or anything?"

Jon's still staring at him like he's gone and sprouted an extra head. 

"Why are you doing this?"

"Um, because I'm starving, and I figured you'd probably want to avoid crowded places, so--"

"No, Martin, forget the sandwich," Jon says, rolling his eyes in impatience. He sighs, and gestures in the air. "I mean… why come down here in the first place? It can't be because you actually expected this to work."

Why is Jon even asking, Martin wonders with a stab of something else that might be irritation of his own. He's been getting Martin in stereo this entire time, he has to know already why Martin's down here and exactly what he thought his chances were.

But then, that might be exactly why. Maybe Jon wants to hear what Martin would say aloud, anyway.

That's a thought that Martin can't quite wrap his head around on its own, but he gamely shrugs after a moment.

"I can't force you to come up and talk to us," he explains. "But it seemed like no one else was going to do it, and… I guess that bothered me."

Jon draws in a sharp breath. "I… I see." He drums his fingers on the edge of the desk for a moment, his face screwed up in something that might be thought. Then he says, unfamiliar uncertainty colouring his words: "You know, I, I think I could do with a bite to eat. I…" And out comes the rest in a rush, "I'll join you."

"Wait, what?" Did he just hear Jon Sims say he was going to grab lunch with someone else (with _Martin_ ), willingly? "But I thought you said--"

"I know what I said," Jon glowers. "But I'm going to have to learn how to rein it in sooner or later. Might as well get started now."

Martin's head is _battered._ He briefly thinks about taking a half day and going home to sleep off this strange, _strange_ conversation. Tim and Sasha would probably be okay with it, he thinks. Then he sternly reminds himself to get a grip and to stop being completely daft.

"Okay. Um. Great! I just - you'll let me know if it gets too much for you, won't you? Or we could find somewhere that doesn't have so many people, if that'll help--"

"In case it escaped your notice, I'm not an _invalid_ ," Jon grouses snippily as he grabs his jacket.

Martin stops talking. "Right. Sorry."

Jon packs his laptop away and shoves it into a space beneath the desk, and they leave Jon's poky, dingy makeshift basement office to make their way through the equally dingy basement corridor. Neither of them say anything; Jon looks lost in thought, and Martin - well, Martin's trying his best not to think too much at all, actually. Or at least, not to think about anything more consequential than how the lights down here could really do with replacing, there must be some kind of room in the budget for it, and not the way his heart is dancing in his chest in a way he definitely didn't ask for.

"Martin," Jon says when they're halfway up the stairs back to the ground floor. Martin starts out of his deliberate, meditative contemplation of the handrail, and finds that Jon's stopped a few steps down. Awkwardness pinches his face, and he is being very, very careful not to look at Martin. 

"You should know," Jon says. "I… ah. I trust you, as well. Not because I can see inside your mind, it's not that. I just - I trust you."

He does look up then, having said his piece. Then he nods stiffly, breathes out, and strides quickly up the stairs.

"Oh," Martin says softly.

Oh, he's in trouble.

~ ⌽ ~

**15th August, 2017**

"Martin," Peter says, melting into visibility in the doorway of the stationary cupboard. "Is now a bad time?"

Martin actually manages not to jump out of his skin, this time. He still starts, though, and the box of biros he was reaching for pitches forward off the shelf and hits the floor with a thud.

"Oh--" Martin takes a sharp breath in, and sighs it back out. "Peter. Not. Not really, I suppose? I mean, it's fine."

Why did he say that? Sure, he's only in the cupboard because they ran out of pens, again, not because he's actually doing anything important, but that doesn't mean it's _fine_ for Peter to come and talk to him while he's in here.

"Good! I wanted to pick your brain about something."

Martin stoops to pick the pens up, and takes the opportunity to wonder why Peter couldn't have just caught him at his desk, or even just sent an email. Peter definitely has an email address. You'd think it would be perfect for someone who hates talking to people, Martin thinks, but no, Peter just _has_ to hate technology on top of everything else.

Oh, that's probably what this is about again, isn't it.

He straightens up, box of pens in hand. "If it's understanding Elias's spreadsheets again--"

"What? No." Peter looks confused for a moment. Then his expression clears, and he shrugs, as if to say, _but that's a fair comment._ "No, I wanted to ask you about the investigation into the never-ending world. I understand you're an integral part of the team."

Well, now it's Martin's turn to be confused.

"… Ye… ah?" Martin's not really sure he's ever been an integral part of anything, really, but that's neither here nor there. "Wait, since when were you actually interested in that investigation?"

"Ah, I see what you're saying. It's true I've never seen much point in trying to understand that world further. I did quite well out of my brush with it, after all, and unlike some, I'm content with my supernatural lot in life."

Peter nods, as though expecting Martin to understand this. Martin resigns himself to being in this stationary cupboard for a while. 

"… Right," he says.

"But recent developments in the past few years have changed some things."

"You mean Jon and Gertrude." 

"Mm, among others."

Would it kill Peter to give out a straight-forward answer for once in his life?

"Peter. Can - can this _not_ be like pulling teeth, for once? Please."

"Well," Peter continues placidly, "Something _Elias_ said in passing piqued my interest, so I decided it was high time I looked through some of the work that you all have been collating." His usually even tone dips into disgust on Elias's name before recovering. "I must say, you have all been busy. However, I couldn't seem to find much on what he was referencing." 

Peter looks at Martin expectantly. Martin tries not to roll his eyes. 

"So…" he prompts.

"Does the word 'combining' mean much to you in this context?"

"Um… no?" Martin's face creases in genuine confusion, annoyance temporarily taking a back seat. "Wait, maybe. I remember it coming up in one or two of the more… fairy-tale sources that we've looked at. But I mean, those are more just, um, for context? And they're never really very clear on what it actually means, anyway. We'd sort of come to the conclusion that it was sort of metaphorical, you know? Just something to make a good story."

Peter is quiet for just long enough that Martin begins to wonder why he bothered. Then he nods, almost to himself.

"And that's what the whole team thought, is it?"

 _What's that supposed to mean?_ Martin almost asks. He doesn't, though. It feels too much like - like that's what Peter wants him to say, and so it would just be giving him the satisfaction if he heard Martin say it. Which sounds weird enough on its own, honestly. But so's this whole conversation, even for Peter. Cryptic, frustrating conversations are par for the course with him, but this one feels… loaded, somehow.

Maybe that's just the years of steadily mounting dislike talking.

"Yep," Martin says shortly. "Why?"

"Hm. Interesting."

Never mind. Peter is _definitely_ trying to drive at something. Martin wishes it had just been the spreadsheets after all.

"Peter. Why."

"Oh, nothing," Peter says, unconvincingly. He looks thoughtful. It's annoying that Martin can't tell if it's genuine or not. "Elias said that… oh now, what was her name… the one who left the Institute suddenly near the end of last year? Oh, Sasha--"

"What about Sasha?"

Peter either doesn't notice the sharpness in Martin's voice, or doesn't care. He puts his hands in his pockets, unruffled and unhurried, and keeps talking as if Martin never interrupted him in the first place. 

"Apparently _she_ was looking into it. Seemed to think it was a vital piece of the puzzle. Elias seemed very disappointed that she'd left so suddenly after uncovering such a promising new lead."

Martin can't quite hold back the noise of frustration in his throat. 

"What, I'm supposed to believe Sasha would have looked into something like that and told _Elias_ but not us? She wouldn't do that, she-- she would've at least left us some notes, or, or something."

She would have, is the thing. She _would_ have. Sasha would have given her full notice period, and made sure everyone was caught up with where she was up to in whatever investigations she was working on, and she would have made a proper handover and everything, because that's just who Sasha is - was. No, is. God, Martin hopes it's still _is._ But that's the thing, isn't it? Tim, Jon, Martin - they all agree that something's just not _right_ with everything about how Sasha suddenly vanished.

She would have kept in touch with them. Well. With Tim, anyway. 

"Ah. You did know her better than me, Martin." One of the worst things about Peter, another one to add to the list, is how he can sound so _reasonable_ saying that. "Maybe I just misheard what Elias was saying."

"Don't," Martin says, voice tight. "Don't, don't pretend like you actually _care._ You didn't know her at all."

Peter's expression is unreadable. "Hm, I suppose you're right."

Then he vanishes. "Still," his voice calls from a little way down the corridor, a few seconds later, "Might be worth looking into."

And then Martin is alone in the stationary cupboard again, clutching a box of biros a bit tighter than is probably necessary.

He knows he's being lead, is the thing, even if he doesn't know where or why. That's the worst part.

"… Yeah," he mutters to the empty cupboard. "Right."

~ ⌽ ~

**3rd June, 2017**

Martin's mobile buzzes while he's at his desk.

He does a quick furtive glance around the office, just to check that no one's looking his way, and then surreptitiously pulls his phone out his pocket just enough to see the push notifications. He's pretty sure it can't be a voicemail - it'd have buzzed away for a lot longer than it did, for a start - but even now he can't help that voice in the back of his mind telling him he should check it right away, just in case.

It's not a voicemail. It's a text. This wouldn't be weird, except that the only people left who would ever text him are both in this office.

 _lunch in 10?_ says the text from Jon.

Martin looks over at Jon's desk. He has his eyes fixed on his disaster zone of paper and reference books, as usual. Martin can't help thinking that there is definitely enough clutter on that desk for Jon to hide a phone under.

He slides his own phone under his desk and types out a quick message.

_You couldn't be bothered to walk over and ask me this?_  
_But yeah sure :)_

Then he shoves his phone back into his pocket before anyone notices. He's vindicated by the sight of Jon's lips quirking up into a smile a moment later.

Martin smiles, and goes back to typing up the write-up he's working on, and determinedly ignores Tim and his knowing smirk trying to catch his eye.

Around ten minutes later, Jon actually does walk over to his desk.

"I was trying to be efficient," he says.

"You were texting on the company time is what you were doing, you rebel," Martin says in a low voice, a grin he can't quite help spreading over his face.

" _Was_ he?" Tim leans over with a delighted grin of his own. "Jonathan, I never knew you had it in you."

"Oh, shut up, Tim." Jon rolls his eyes. He pauses, and for an instant something hesitant flies across his face. Then it's gone, as he turns to Tim with an expression that looks very carefully neutral. "Actually, Tim, since I've got you here, it's reminded me - there was something quick I wanted to ask you before I head off."

"Oh," Tim says. "Sure thing." The smile on his face is still a little too wide for Martin's liking. It's one of the biggest real smiles Tim's had in a while. One of the most genuine he's had since Sasha went missing, really. It feels like it should be a good thing, but honestly it's just making Martin nervous. Martin distracts himself from it by making sure he's got his phone and his wallet on him as he gets up from his desk. 

"Thanks." Jon turns back to Martin and smiles apologetically. "This shouldn't take too long. I'll catch you up near the front entrance?"

"Oh." Martin blinks, and tries not to feel too put out. That's easier than he thought it'd be, with Jon smiling at him like that. "Sure."

He wanders slowly down towards reception, hoping that whatever last-minute thing Jon's remembered that he needs from Tim really won't take that long. Texting on Institute time or not, Jon's still a bit of a workaholic, and no amount of Tim's attempting to be a bad influence has cured him of that. It'd be just like him to get caught up in it and forget about lunch.

But Jon's as good as his word, this time; Martin's barely made it down the last flight of stairs before he finds Jon clattering down behind him, slightly out of breath.

"Did you _run_ down here?" Martin asks him, an incredulous laugh in his voice.

"Didn't want to keep you waiting," Jon puffs by way of explanation. Something warm and fond twines its way around Martin's heart and pulls. "Shall we?"

Jon's timed it well; the lunch time rush is over by the time they make it to their usual shop, so they don't have to queue. The weather's lovely today as well, a London summer's day that isn't pushing it into that horrible inner-city muggy heat, and after a bit of back-and-forth they finally settle on taking their lunch with them down to a bench on the embankment. They look out at the Thames crawling its way sluggishly through the city and they talk about things that are a strictly non-paranormal part of their normal. Jon complains about his upstairs neighbour picking weird hours of the night to move furniture around again, and Martin tells Jon about the last time he decided to make the effort of traipsing up to the little Polish deli for pierogi, and one brief discussion of fillings later gets Jon set on a long, winding explanation about fermentation that Martin is only too happy to sit back and listen to. 

It's nice, Martin thinks. It's just really nice. If you'd told him two years ago he'd be sitting on a bench sharing his lunch break with Jon, he would've said that that sounded like a lovely daydream. If you'd told him that Jon would be the one texting him while they were supposed to be working to ask Martin to share his lunch break with him, he probably would've laughed. It feels a little wrong to be enjoying it so much, when they're all still embroiled in the middle of some kind of huge supernatural tangle that just keeps getting more and more complicated. But that still doesn't make the warm knot of feelings in Martin's chest when he looks at Jon any less than what it is. 

Jon pauses for breath, and then he catches Martin's eye and says, "Are you even listening?"

"Um." He is, of course he is, but he can admit that he was starting to lose a few words near the end there. And that he's been staring at Jon in a way that he's hopefully just interpreted as Martin's eyes glazing over, and not the hopeless mooning it is.

"You know, if I'm boring you at any point, you can just tell me to stop," Jon says dryly, and his mouth might be downturned, but the corners of his eyes are crinkled with what Martin has long come to recognise as amusement. 

"I really don't think that's possible," Martin says without thinking.

He almost wishes for the ground to swallow him up for a split second, until Jon's carefully constructed amused frown falls apart into something open and undeniably fond.

"Oh." Jon ducks his head. "You may regret saying that."

"I really don't think I will."

There's a lull, then. The discarded wrapping from their lunch, packed into each other and shoved into the largest bag like a set of rubbish matryoshka dolls, sits tucked just behind Martin, ready to be taken with them when they move. Jon drums his fingers nervously on his legs for a moment, then takes a breath.

"Martin," he says. There's a funny sort of look on his face when he looks back, almost determined. "I just wanted to say - I, I like this."

That set look of maybe-determination twists and collapses into one of extreme displeasure. Martin blinks, not entirely sure how to read this.

"O… kay?" he ventures. And then he thinks, he can do better than this. It wouldn't be the first time Jon's stumbled his way through a conversation. "I mean, good. It sort of was your idea."

"No, no, sorry, that--" Jon huffs out an impatient sigh, waving a hand through the air. "This isn't coming out right. This, us, getting lunch and talking. It's just - I like it."

Oh. Martin's heart skips a beat over a sudden wave of fondness. "I like it too," he smiles.

Jon smiles too, his whole face relaxing. That wave of fondness washes back in for another round.

"Good," Jon says, sounding relieved. He starts fidgeting again, little taps of pent-up energy that he stills by curling his fingers into his trousers. "I, ah, I don't think I ever really thanked you for that first time?"

Jon hadn't, but they'd been in a very different place back then. It's almost a bit weird for Jon to be bringing it up, and Martin opens his mouth to say so, but Jon is still talking, pushing the words out like he's afraid he won't be able to if he stops for breath.

"I didn't realise it back then," Jon's saying, "and probably would have rather died than admit it, but, it, it was what I needed. And honestly some days it still is. It's - sometimes, the more we uncover, it's - it's difficult not to feel like I'm just another part of the mystery." Jon's lip curls, something between distaste and self-deprecation. "But - but I don't feel like that when I'm."

He falters for an instant, his voice softening. "When it's just. This, and, and you."

Martin can't breathe. He should say something. He knows he should say something. But all the words he knows have just flown clear out of his head. He's had guilty little daydreams, of Jon saying things like this, but he'd been happy enough to shove those deep down in his heart where they couldn't bother him with how unattainable they were. 

Maybe not as unattainable as you thought, crows a hopeful part of him that's devoid of all common sense, and he _still_ hasn't got himself together enough to say something. Just sits there, watching as Jon runs an agitated hand through his hair.

"Good Lord, I'm making a mess of this," he mutters. Martin's heart is going to burst with how much feeling he has for this man. Jon looks right into Martin's eyes now, his gaze uncertain, full of something that might be hope. 

"I. Martin," he says. "I'd like to do this - us, I mean, to-together - when it's not just us on our lunch break. Am I--" He shrugs, his voice finally petering off weakly, and finishes, "God, just tell me if I've read this wrong."

"Are you," Martin croaks, finally finding his words again. "Are you - asking me out right now?"

"Yes," Jon says immediately, and looks surprised at himself. Then he nods, breathes in and stammers, "Yes, i-if that's what we're calling - yes. I am."

He can call it whatever he likes, Martin thinks, most of him still can't believe what he's hearing.

"Am I," he starts, before a giddy little laugh escapes out his mouth. "Am I dreaming right now? Or," and a horrible, mad thought occurs to him that he can't quite pull back quick enough, "Tim, I, I swear, I swear if that's you, this - you know this isn't funny--"

" _Martin!_ " Jon calls, and oh. It's him. Of course it's him. "It's not Tim," he says, and he looks like he doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or to be offended. "Or a dream, for that matter. It's me. It's just me." 

Hesitant, he reaches a hand between them. "Am - does this mean I haven't read it wrong?"

Martin shakes his head. "No," he says. He finds Jon's hand on the bench between them and takes it, his fingers slotting between Jon's. "No, you've - yeah, you've got it right."

"And?" Jon says, so soft he can hardly hear it.

"Yes," Martin says, and then he's babbling, "Yes, Jon, yes, the answer's yes. It's always been yes."

Martin can feel a smile on his face so broad it hurts. He doesn't care, though. Not when there's an answering smile on Jon's face that lights up more and more with every _yes_ out of Martin's mouth. Not when Martin can feel Jon's hand squeezing his. Not when Martin's chest feels so light and yet so full that it feels like something's got to give in there.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks without thinking. "I - I'd really like to."

Jon's beaming smile drops for a second into a slack-jawed look of surprise that has Martin's stomach dropping with it, terrified he's overstepped. Then Jon's smiling again, softer this time, as he leans in to press that smile into Martin's lips. It's quick and closed-mouthed, but it feels like a promise. It feels like everything Martin's wanted for years.

"I've had thoughts about doing that for a while," Jon admits quietly into the space between them, a secret that Martin can tuck away to examine later.

It's a dizzying thought. Martin presses another kiss to the corner of Jon's mouth to buy himself some time. "How long's a while?"

Jon hums. "How long's always?"

"Hey. Not fair, you don't get to turn that back around on me."

"But I just did!" Jon grins, a laugh in his voice. He looks at Martin like - like there's nothing else he'd rather be looking at, and having that thought fills Martin's heart up all over again. How long has Jon been looking at him like that?

Then Jon looks at his watch and sighs, and the moment's broken.

"We're going to be late getting back," he says, pulling a face. And oh, that's right. They still have to work this afternoon. Seems almost unfair, really. "But let's talk more about this later?"

Later, Martin thinks. If he manages to make it through the rest of the day like this. If his brain lets him focus on something that isn't the memory of Jon saying _this, and you_ for long enough to think about anything related to the supernatural.

"Oh, fine," he says. And then, just because he has to check: "Later like… on a date later?"

Jon starts as he stoops to pick up their matryoshka of rubbish. "Um," he says. "Yes. Like - like that."

Martin smiles.

Their walk back to the Institute is more hurried than either of them really like, because Martin checks his phone and realises that they really _are_ going to be late.

But he still gets to take Jon's hand in his.

~ ⌽ ~

**18th Octo̘͐b̧̭̋̒er̘͐,̫̌͌͜ ̝̓͜͝2̹̓0̻̪̩̮̦̽̇̑̈́̈́1̡̳͈̞̮̊͊̐́͠8͎͓͙̝͚̓̈͋̐͝**

Basira's been feeling off all day.

She could easily chalk it up to the date. It's been a year now, since Daisy… since Daisy. It's weird to think about. Weird to think that it's only been a year, and yet so much of her life has changed. Weird to think that it's been a full year, and yet she doesn't feel like she's any closer to unravelling what happened to them, or putting a stop to it.

Anniversaries are just like that. It could just be the date getting to her.

It isn't, though. She knows it isn't. She's had this feeling hanging over her since she got out of bed this morning, like the ones she used to get when she was on the force when she was part of the response team for something big. Something's coming; something that's going to need her to keep a clear head.

Seeing Naomi Herne gave her the same feeling. That might just have been the deja vu, though. There were moments during her interview where Basira was so sure that she was sitting in on something that was exactly the same as something she's seen before, right down to who was sitting where. 

She _could_ chalk it up to the date. She's done a lot of interviews in her time, and her deja vu's been worse since the incident last year, after all. But Basira has also always trusted her gut; it's part of what made her a good officer, back when she cared about that. And her gut is telling her that something's up.

She feels it again passing by reception, half-listening to Jon talk about follow-up on what Naomi's told them. A feeling that she's passed by here before, and not checked in about Naomi, and regretted it.

"Hang on," she says to Jon, and breaks away towards Rosie's desk. 

"Basira?"

"Just want to check something quick."

Naomi Herne should have left the building already. She was guided back downstairs, and she was directed to the toilets when she asked for them, and she was told to take a card with Jon's direct line scribbled on in ballpoint pen under the official Institute contact details, and she was told to leave her details with Rosie just in case they found something she'd want to hear before she contacted them. 

Jon's frowning, but he's following her regardless. "Another one of your hunches?"

"Maybe." Or maybe working in this place is just getting to her. This sort of detail wouldn't usually bother her. "I dunno. Doesn't matter. Rosie, did you see Naomi Herne come by yet?"

Rosie glances up from her screen. "Is that the lady who came in earlier?"

"Yeah," Basira nods. "We asked her to leave her details on the way out."

"Sorry, Basira. I haven't seen her since she came in."

 _We're already too late,_ says an irrational part of Basira's brain that her dad would hate. 

"Shit," she mutters instead.

"I can keep an eye out for her if you'd like?"

"No, it doesn't matter. Thanks."

Basira shakes her head, and steps away from Rosie's desk with the gears in her mind already turning. Jon swerves to fall into step next to her, a sharp look in his eyes.

"Basira, what was that about?"

"Naomi's still here." Basira doesn't _know_ why that's important. Just that it is, and if they don't pick up where she's got to, it won't end well. The certainty's brought on with a sudden rush of heat in her eyes, something overwhelming in her vision that she has to blink away. This is no good. She needs to think like Daisy would; solid and simple and sure. "We need to find her, now."

 _We need to go down,_ she thinks, another pulse of heat sweeping through her eyes. Jon bristles at her side with nervous impatience.

"What's going-- ah!"

With a clatter, the tape recorder Jon was holding falls out of his hand and skitters across the floor. Jon doubles over, clutching his head and making small, pained noises that leave a low-level hum in Basira's ears.

"Jon?"

She turns to him in alarm, already reaching out to support him in case his legs decide to give way, running through the first aid she knows for any situation that might match. Jon gasps for breath, and makes a sound; something that might be a laugh or a sob, Basira can't tell.

"Ohhhhh no," Jon breathes in a low voice. 

He raises his head just enough to look at her; she doesn't start, but she feels her heart rate pick up. For as long as Basira's known him, Jon's eyes have been that weird, bright green that she's learned is linked with the supernatural powers people come back with from the other world. That's not new. 

But she's never seen them glowing before. 

They're glowing now, and unfocused, staring off into the distance at something Basira can't see. As Basira watches, small, curved marks appear on his skin, carved in there bloodlessly as if by some kind of invisible knife. 

"I know where she is," Jon says, and collapses against her.

░░░▒░░▓▒▓▒▓▒▓▓▓▓▒▓▓▓▓▒▓▓▒▓▓▓▓▒▓▓░▒▓░▒▓░░ ░ ░

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i don't have to include a scene where jonathan "overthinker but also governed entirely by impulse decisions" sims awkwardly asks martin "can and _will_ sit on his feelings for years without saying anything" blackwood out. but also: consider that it is important to me that the people know they got to steal a bit of happiness in the middle of all the bad end timeloops
> 
> once again, thanks so much to everyone for the continued response to this fic! this chapter concludes part 2 of this story. the next chapter will be the start of part 3, which may end up spanning two chapters. things out in the real world have been a bit hectic now that i'm back at work leaving me less time for writing than i'd like, so i am also tentatively pushing the next update for this fic to be in two week's time (sunday 2nd august). thanks for your patience and understanding!
> 
> next chapter: dead and seek.


	5. dead and seek I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all, we're back for part 3! by this point we should probably assume that when a new part starts, the chapter count is probably going to increase by 2, huh. this is what happens when you plan 10 parts to your fic and then it accidentally turns into longfic because you were behind the barn door when brevity was being dished out. :'D
> 
> in this chapter: Martin meets the Archive once again. the fable of the monster with many eyes continues. meanwhile, back out in the past of the real world, Sasha has some thoughts about the mystery she and her colleagues are embroiled in.  
>   
>  **content warnings for this chapter:**  
>  \- temporary memory loss  
> \- unreality/Vast-typical open space  
> \- canon-typical negative self-talk  
> \- canon-typical verbal conflict  
> \- discussion of extreme self-sacrificing behaviour and character death  
> \- being hunted/chased (not described in detail)  
> \- swearing  
>   
> (as always, please let me know if there's something that should be tagged for that i have missed!)

░░▒▓░▓▓▒▒▓▓▓▓▒▒▓▒░▒░ ▒

The sky is so dark.

Can he really still call it a sky if it's everywhere instead of just above his head? Martin's been thinking about this, since he realised that he was just standing in the middle of nothing staring up at it, and probably had been for who knows how long. Or well, since he realised that he wasn't going to start plummeting to his death through all this empty maybe-sky any time soon. 

This really is a bizarre dream. And it has to be a dream, as he's reasoned to all the dark clouds around him. No response from them, obviously, but it's more for the sake of being able to hear a human voice than for anything else. Even if that voice is just his own. 

"It has to be a dream, because I mean, you don't see this sort of thing happening out in the real world, do you? I-I mean, paranormal encounters aside. But I don't think I've heard of anything like this before?" Martin tells the faintly whistling wind as he trudges through the sky. "And I mean, I've read about a lot of them. Um, I think so, anyway."

That's right, isn't it? It feels right, feels like the truth. For some reason, when he tries to remember anything more specific, it's like trying to catch smoke. But that happens in dreams as well, right?

"Even if this one's weirder than usual," he mutters. "My dreams are usually more… chaotic than this? They just kind of go all over the place. I don't think I've ever had a one like this before."

No, wait. That's not right.

"Unless I have?" 

Now he's said it, Martin's almost sure he has. The dark clouds surrounding him wherever he looks, the otherwise empty sky that he can walk through - he's seen this before, he's _been_ here before. This was where he woke up after he--

"Wait, wait, am I - am I dead?"

As if the words broke some kind of seal, a splitting pain lances through Martin's head, smoke solidifying and trying to press itself into any gap in his mind that it can. He remembers now. He _remembers._ What Sasha left behind, working out what to do about it, the wind rushing in his ears, Elias--

Martin's dead. He's dead. Or as good as, anyway, here in this never-ending world.

But Jon will be okay, Martin reminds himself as his head keeps spinning. Martin's made it so Elias can't get what he wants.

Hasn't he?

Except that, when Martin thinks about it, concentrates hard and tries to pin down a single memory out of the jumble that's the inside of his head right now, he's sure - Elias had been _smiling._

People who've just had their diabolical plans thwarted don't tend to smile, says a voice in his head that reminds him a lot of Tim and seizes him with an unaccountable urge to start laughing. Oh God, did Elias see him coming? Did he _plan_ this, Martin coming in with his big stupid heart, thinking he was doing something that would help? That would actually accomplish anything that wasn't just getting himself stuck, and, and _dead_ , in this place _again?_

Wait. Again?

Yes, again. He's seen these dark rolling clouds before, he's been here before, he knows he has.

"Yeah, right," Martin mutters, unclenching his fingers from the tight fists he's only just realised he's had balled at his sides. He winces a bit at the red half-moon marks his nails left in his palms. "Even I couldn't manage something like dying _twice._ "

The space in front of him ripples suddenly; Martin almost writes it off as his mind playing tricks on him until the ripples coalesce into bands of disjointed colour shot through with dancing flecks of black and white, and then there's a person standing there.

"You came here _again?_ "

There goes the _even Martin couldn't manage this twice_ theory, but that's the last thing on Martin's mind right now.

"Jo--" he starts, on reflex, but it's not Jon. It looks like Jon, at first glance; looks so much like him that Martin's heart is filled with a fresh wave of ache, a leaden ball in his chest. But it's not him. "Who're you?"

"Oh." This new person's frown deepens. Martin feels their gaze on his skin, a vibrant green he's all too familiar with, a pressure he can't shake. "Of course you don't remember. Why would you."

Static rises and falls in Martin's ears with every word. Like tuning a radio, he thinks, only that's not right; even with the static crackling away, he can still hear that voice with crystal clarity, painfully familiar and yet just this side of _wrong_. 

"Hang on, have we met?"

That isn't even the first question running through his head at the moment, but it's the first one he manages to grab ahold of. It's met by a frown twisting into something that might be disappointment, or resignation, or something else entirely that Martin can't read.

"As far as you're concerned? No. We haven't."

Martin knows a roundabout way of saying _yes_ when he hears one. 

"So we have, then?" he persists. He knows he's caught them when the prickling weight of those eyes on his skin takes on a sort of agitation that makes all his hairs stand on end. He can't think how it happened, or when. But he knows it's right. 

If the two of them met _here_ before, somehow, that would explain the weird feeling of deja vu he's having. Not all of it, but some of it. The other options are… well. They're things that he's got no _proof_ for, things that don't even make any sense with what he knows. Things that make his heart try and pull double duty between being a tight, dense mass of ache in his chest, and a fragile, hummingbird-fast thing in his throat. 

It _can't_ be Jon. It can't be. But that doesn't stop Martin from stammering, "You look like-- you remind me of my - someone I, that I… know."

He doesn't get an answer at first, but the faint hum of static in Martin's ears rises anyway, enough to be painful. Martin grits his teeth against it inside his closed mouth, swallowing around the lump in his throat as he watches the other person's mouth press into a tight, thin line, that intense gaze fraying strained at the edges.

"Hm," they eke out after a while, in a bored tone that pulls the static back to something a bit more manageable.

The non-answer does nothing to calm Martin's anxiety. But he knows all too well when he's being stonewalled, and if anything, this just proves that this really can't be Jon. Jon wouldn't be making such a terrible, cryptic attempt to pretend they'd never met, if it was him. 

Would he?

"You got a name, then?" Martin asks. Trying a different tack, and well, if he sounds frustrated, that's because he is. He thinks he's allowed a bit of frustration, given everything. "Something I can call you?"

There's another pause. The low static still humming in Martin's ears almost has an air of thought about it.

"… The Archive," they say, almost reluctantly. "If you want."

"That doesn't sound like a name for a person."

The Archive's eyes narrow. "Are you going to say that every time?"

"What does that mean?"

"Doesn't matter," the Archive snaps immediately. The irritation feels like more a deflection than anything else. Martin opens his mouth to say that actually, it _does_ matter quite a lot, thanks, but the Archive beats him to it. 

"Anyway," they say, matter-of-fact, "I'm not a person, which I'm _sure_ you're already quite aware of, given you've read the stories about me."

In spite of himself, in spite of his frustration at the Archive's transparent question dodging, Martin finds he still has some left to spare on their behalf.

" _Not a--_ " Martin starts, and then the rest of that little speech clicks. "Wait, hang on - you, you're the one they're all about?"

Like the endless clouds, like the Archive's name, like so much else about this conversation, there's something about this that doesn't feel like new information. 

"Yes." The Archive's mouth curls into a humourless smile. Their gaze carries something sharp and mocking in it now, the pressure of it taking on a knife's edge. "How does it feel knowing you're face to face with a monster, _Martin?_ "

Even being sure that he's somehow met the Archive before - impossibly so, because Martin still can't reckon with how he could have managed to land himself in this place twice - even with that, hearing his own name in that voice lands like a blow.

"How'd you know my name?"

"You're the one who said we've met."

Martin entertains a fleeting notion of grabbing one of the world's greatest paranormal mysteries by the shoulders and giving them a good shake.

"That's not--" he starts to argue, before he manages to rein his temper back in. Deep breaths. How ridiculous is it that he still breathes even when he's effectively dead? "Okay," he says, throwing his hands up. "You know what, fine." 

It's not fine. It's not fine at all. But Martin has so many things on his mind right now, he can't spare the energy. 

One thing he can't let lie, though. "You don't look like a monster to me."

Is that true? Martin wonders as the words leave his mouth. It is, he tells himself stubbornly. And it's not just because so much of the Archive reminds him of Jon. The static, the eyelid-shaped scars, the scale-like patterns refracting light on the surface of a thick fall of hair, even that heavy, pins-and-needles gaze - even with all that, he doesn't see a monster. He doesn't. Maybe not someone human, but… not a monster.

The Archive's mouth sets into a stubborn, unhappy line.

"Maybe that just means you need to find yourself a better perspective."

Their eyebrows crowd together anxiously over their eyes. The knife-edge press of them is gone, now; it's more like standing under a small waterfall. Martin braces himself and meets that vivid gaze dead-on with his own, pursing his lips.

"No, you know what? I think I'm alright." 

Perspective nothing, he thinks. Elias looks completely human and might just be the most monstrous thing Martin's ever met. But thinking about Elias sends an icy spike through his gut thinking about what he possibly could have missed, if Jon and the others really aren't safe after all. 

God, he's not about to have an anxiety spiral in front of an ancient, inscrutable creature that had enough power to make a whole world of their own, and that hysterical thought gives him something to latch onto. Questions. He can still ask questions. 

"So," Martin says, voice only a little high and unsteady, "Those stories, they said you created this place. That right?"

The Archive gives a wary nod. "Yes. That part's true."

"Right," Martin nods. "Okay, right, good, 'cause I think I have questions for you? More - more than a few, actually."

He really doesn't know where he's going with this, at first. But the words keep spilling out, and his frustration comes tumbling out alongside them. Maybe the Archive isn't a monster, but - "I mean, you _made_ this place, and, and you obviously know when people show up here since -" Martin jerks his arms sharply at himself - "So, so that means, you've known for ages that it's been sucking people in. So why haven't you done anything about it? There, there, you know there are people in here who have families out there holding out hope they might come back because all the police reports have them down as missing and not dead, you could - you created an entire world, you could fix that! And, don't, you shouldn't even get me started on the _mess_ the people who manage to get out with those eyes are stuck with--"

" _ **Enough.**_ "

The Archive doesn't raise their voice, but they also don't have to. The static blanketing the word crescendos into a shrill, whining screech that has Martin gasping and pressing his hands over his ears tight enough to hurt. 

"To address your _concerns_ ," they seethe, thick static still lacing their words. "Yes, I created this place for myself, but I did not intend for anyone else to ever come here. I certainly didn't intend for it to _suck people in_ , but unfortunately for all of us, I no longer have any control over who or what enters or leaves. I can't even command my own power anymore, because I no longer have the means to do so. So I am _sorry_ if that is a disappointment to you. Because if I were able to call all my power back to me right now and reseal this world, believe me, I would."

The static drops abruptly at the end of that little speech, the wind going out of their sails. Martin risks pulling his hands away, very slowly, from his ears; the Archive looks almost ashamed to see it, but lifts their chin defiantly as he straightens up.

Martin takes a couple of calming breaths. That could have gone so badly, he realises with a giddy kind of hindsight, and then wonders what he's even meant to do with what he now knows. That the Archive can't fix things; that it might not even have been their fault, or at least, not all their fault.

If they're not lying about it, anyway. But he doesn't think they are. Martin's already seen just how bad the Archive is at trying to lie.

"So, what," Martin says slowly, after a moment of thought. "The, the people who manage to get out of this place with some kind of power, you're saying that's just random chance?"

"Yes."

"What, all of them?"

" _Yes,_ " the Archive glares. "You think I'm happy about being trapped here with a growing collection of decaying nightmares while fragments of my power escape?"

"Honestly," Martin shrugs, "I really don't know what to think."

"At least you're honest."

Martin isn't, but the Archive doesn't need to know that.

"You must have _some_ idea about it," he presses. "They're _your_ powers."

" _Fine,_ " the Archive spits, bristling. Martin isn't sure if he's hit a nerve, or if they just want to shut him up. By this point, he's just glad to finally be getting a straight answer. "If I were to speculate, I would guess some compatibility of personality? Or they wanted something. Wanted it badly enough that the snake most suited to it had no choice but to respond."

That makes sense, Martin guesses, but _snake_ makes him pause. So that wasn't just a storyteller's metaphor?

No, no, it's not the time. "Right. Okay. And what about why you only have a chance of getting out if that happens when you're in a pair?"

The Archive's gaze turns shrewd and secret. They study Martin's face for a moment before answering.

" _Are_ they a pair? Or are they halves of a whole?"

There's a strange look on their face, almost like they're in on some kind of joke, and expect Martin to pick up on it. Almost. It's too haunted a look for that. It twists Martin's heart painfully, makes him falter, lose his train of thought. He wants to ask what that means. He's scared of the answer he might get. 

His hesitation is apparently all the invitation the Archive needs. 

"I have some questions for you now, if you don't mind," they say in a brisk voice. Their frown doesn't match it; it's dark and almost fierce, and Martin gets the feeling that it wouldn't matter if he did mind. "Why did you come here, Martin?" 

Wait, what?

"You're more well-read about this place, its _inner workings_ and, and its history than all but a few others have ever been able to claim. You've been surrounded by those who've been lucky enough to have escaped, you know that coming here alone is a - little better than a death sentence, you had to have known exactly what you were doing when you _chose_ to throw yourself in here." They sound almost desperate now, an urgency in the way they press ahead relentlessly. Martin takes a reflexive step back as the Archive moves closer, that fierce look in their eyes like a brand. "So why. Why did you do it? Why imprison yourself here _willingly?_ "

Martin holds his breath, waiting for the crackling in his ears to stop. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't - it wasn't _this._ Not - not the question, the demand really, and not the palpable distress in the Archive's face, spilling out through their gaze like candle wax.

"Like I said." Martin's mouth is dry. "The, the situation the people out there are in, the ones who have bits of your power? Well, it's bad." A bitter, brittle sound escapes him before he can put effort into holding it back. "I wanted to save someone."

Said out loud like that, it sounds pathetic. Would probably have still sounded that way even if he wasn't still thinking about Elias's final smile, how it seems so, so obvious in hindsight that he's been played. That what Elias has in mind is even worse than what Martin or Sasha or even Gertrude had thought. Who did _Martin_ think he could save like this, really?

But there's no scorn in the Archive's face. Just - just something ashen and hollow. They stare at Martin with wide eyes, and Martin thinks of Jon, and feels like a fool. 

"I'm not so sure that person is worth it," says the Archive, in a cracked voice barely above a whisper.

Cold anger encases Martin's heart.

"You know, I don't think that's something _you_ get to decide, actually."

"But you do?" the Archive shoots back, their eyes flashing. "Get to decide that - that your life is a fair price for theirs?"

That's not fair.

"You don't know him." Meeting the Archive's eyes is like looking into the sun, but Martin does it anyway. "You don't know any of them, you don't know _me_. Why do you care so much?"

"Why do _you?_ " 

The Archive shakes as the words leave their mouth, static buzzing in Martin's ears. Then they school their face back into a scowl.

"Never mind," they mutter, before Martin can even begin to scrape together a retort. "I hope I don't see you here next time. But maybe it's always too late for that."

With that parting shot, they vanish. And Martin is alone.

See him here _next time_? Next time for what? He stares at the endless sky in front of him, mind racing, breathing unsteady. 

"Screw this. I'm not staying here forever."

Martin sets his jaw, shoves his hands into his pockets, and walks.

Above him, the sky flickers.

░░░▒░░▓▒▓▒▓▒▓▓▓▓▒▓▓▓▓▒▓▓▒▓▓▓▓▒▓▓░▒▓░▒▓░░ ░ ░

_I do not know if you have ever truly understood what it is to be alone in the world. I hope that you have not; but if you have, you will know that the knowledge of it weaves itself through all else like a fog._

_So it was for the monster, who once again felt restless in the place it called its home. Though the cycle of the seasons brought ever new things to see and to know, the pattern of life began to grow stale, the thoughts of animals easy to predict. The monster wondered, as it had never wondered before, if there might be others out there like itself, walking the world hungry for knowledge._

_"After all," it said to a family of ducks in the river, "There are plenty of you out here. Why shouldn't there be anything else like me?"_

_The monster began to wander further and further afield, away from the heart of the forest. The further it walked, the thinner the trees became, and the more the monster began to happen upon clearings that opened up great spaces in the woods, or well-trodden dirt roads. Many years had passed since the monster had first emerged from the cave underground, and in that time small settlements of humans had grown up around the forest's edge, slowly pushing back the trees with each passing year._

_The monster knew none of this yet. It had never seen a human before, and so it did not know what to make of them the night that it came across a hunting party gathered around their small campfire._

_The monster was sure to be quiet as it came closer, for it knew from its years spent in the forest that other creatures could be startled into flight by its appearance. It stood just out of the firelight's glow and watched the humans. The monster was surprised to hear them talk, as it had never met another creature capable of speech; but even more interesting was the way that these new creatures had thoughts and feelings that sometimes seemed at odds with the words they spoke._

_"How curious," the monster said to itself. "For never have I seen anything that does not act in line with how it feels."_

_At length, the monster decided it should speak to these new, complicated creatures. For surely if they had travelled from outside the forest, they might have heard of something like itself._

_Alas, the monster did not yet know enough of human nature. For as it came into the light of the fire the humans saw its many eyes and the snakes wreathed about its head, and they cried out in anger and fear, and reached for their weapons._

_The monster had never felt its own fear before. But it knew the signs of animals readying themselves for the chase, and the humans were many while the monster was but one._

_So the monster turned and fled. Through the trees and the darkness the humans chased it, bearing torches to light their way, and still the monster ran, unable to shake off the ones that wished it harm for reasons it did not understand._

_"Please," it begged as it ran through the dark. "Please, I need them not to see me."_

_Again, a new snake as dark as the bones of the earth joined the others, and in its surprise the monster tripped. As it lay there, waiting for the blow that would mean its death, it realised that the torches had passed it by. The humans circled the area for a few minutes more, but it became clear from their frustrated shouting that they could not see the monster where it lay, and soon after, the torchlight faded as they left._

_The monster wept bitter tears that night, but its new power of concealment kept it safely hidden from the eyes and ears of others until the sun rose once more. When the new day finally dawned over the trees, it rose from the ground, and continued toward the forest's edge._

~ ⌽ ~

**17th October, 2016**

One day, Martin might just manage to go two weeks without forgetting things in odd places. Whenever that day may come, it's not today; he managed to get to the tube station before he realised he's only gone and left his notebook on his desk.

He could just leave it; it's starting to get dark out, the grey autumn light taking on hints of something warmer as the sun goes down. And it's not like anyone would bother with taking anything off his desk, tidy desks are a thing that just doesn't exist in their department, it'd be fine. 

But however unlikely it is, however absurd it is, the thought of someone idly leafing through his little notebook makes him want to curl up in a dark hole somewhere. And besides, he wants to give writing a go tonight. There's something about today that makes him feel like it's a good one to try and get a poem out, and… well, it might just keep his mind off things. Or at least get things out of his mind, depending on where his pen takes him.

The point is: there's nothing for it, he's got to trudge his way back to the Institute building to get it or his brain will be spinning in circles all night.

The lights are still on when he makes it back up to the office. This isn't _that_ unusual, really; despite the hazy sunset outside, it's not actually that late yet, by some people's standards. "Some people" mostly being Jon. He might have been well and truly absorbed into their little group by now, but staying alone at work late into the small hours is still a habit none of them have been able to break him of.

They've all pulled their share of late nights before, of course. But Jon takes it to staggeringly new depths.

"Is that you in here, Jon?" Martin calls as he makes a beeline for his desk. He's idly wondering if Jon will be in a mood where he will begrudgingly let himself be talked out of leaving after dark, when he realises that Jon's desk is surprisingly empty. Empty of Jon, that is; the usual pile of chaos whose organisation is a mystery to everyone but Jon himself is still there. 

To Martin's surprise, the only desk with a person still at it is Sasha's. She looks up, her glasses perched on top of her head. 

"Oh," Martin fumbles, feeling a bit wrong-footed. "Sasha? What're you still doing here?"

"Jon doesn't have the monopoly on working late, you know," she says with a small, amused smile. She slips her glasses back down onto her nose, spinning her chair as Martin comes closer.

"I mean - _yeah_ ," Martin shrugs. "But also… sometimes it feels like he sort of does?"

"Wow, Martin. That was almost mean-spirited of you."

"What?" Martin's fingers slip as he reaches over to lever his notebook up off his desk. "Oh, God, it - it wasn't meant to be."

"I know," Sasha tells him, the teasing note giving way to something more reassuring. She stretches in her seat, rolling her neck to ease the kinks in it. "What brings you back here? I thought you'd escaped for the night."

"Oh, you know… forgot something," Martin says weakly, holding up his notebook as his talisman of evidence. Sasha, bless her, doesn't say anything, just giving him a warm nod and a smile to match. Martin tucks his notebook safely back into his bag, feeling a bit at a loss.

"You've been doing that a bit more, recently," he says after a moment. "Staying later than usual, I mean."

Sasha sighs, her fingers rubbing at one of her temples. "I've just got some things to finish up before I leave, that's all. You know how it is, it's this time of year."

Martin does know how it is. They all feel it one way or another, once October starts setting in. Tim swings wildly between throwing himself into his work and staying as far away from the Institute as possible, projecting cheer over old wounds reopening that have never really had a chance to fully scar over. Jon brims over with nervous energy, slipping back into old habits of defensive irritation, Gerry becomes surly and moody and hard to find, and Martin… well. Martin plods along, hyper-aware of all the tension in the air, and also bitterly aware that there isn't much of anything he can do to smooth it over the way he so desperately wants to. The days leading up to the 18th are like standing in the eye of a hurricane; all of them know the storm is still on the move, and that there's nothing they can do but wait to see what the damage is going to be.

Sasha handles it best out of all of them, really. But even she shows the strain, her sharp and curious mind straying away from her usual methodical approach and into something else. A sort of focus sharp enough to make your eyes sting.

It's been more noticeable than usual this year, he thinks.

What he says is, "Right-o. Well, I… I guess I'll leave you to it? Unless there's anything I can do."

"Thanks, Martin, but I shouldn't be too much longer anyway. I've got Gerry combing the dark corners of the internet for me in the background." Sasha's smile is grateful, and her eyes are kind, but her voice is firm and doesn't invite an argument. "You go enjoy your evening."

"I dunno if I can. I - honestly, I get really on edge before the 18th."

Sasha's smile fades into something more pensive. 

"I know. Going through all the missing persons reports that start coming in after isn't fun."

It isn't. It might be the worst part of the whole thing, actually. Trying to search for any hints that the disappearance really _was_ supernatural, that something happened that should have left a body behind but didn't. Sasha and Gerry put their combined talents to use hacking into things that they shouldn't, while Tim and Jon put their power to effective, dubiously ethical use out in the field. Martin always ends up wondering about the people behind the reports; who they were, what their real stories are. 

And there's always that lingering thought at the back of all of their minds; what if there's someone out there who woke up after a near-death experience with a power burning behind their eyes that they don't know what to do with?

"Do you…" Martin starts. He feels a bit foolish even thinking about this question, but he wants to ask it anyway. It'll eat at him otherwise; the way it's been eating at him for a while already, honestly. "Do you think we have any kind of chance of finding out what's really going on with this one? This whole thing with the other world and the people who manage to come back, I mean. Like - do you ever think we'll find out enough to, I dunno, change anything about it?"

Sasha bites her lip in thought, considering. "Do you want my honest answer?"

"Well - yeah, course I do."

"Okay," Sasha nods, wheeling her desk chair a little further out from her desk. Martin pulls a chair over from the nearest empty one, sinking into it and leaning his elbows on his knees as he listens. He's starting to wish he'd put the kettle on; he doesn't really know what to do with his hands. It has to be showing.

"Well, I really don't know," Sasha says, baldly. "I know that Tim and Jon both _want_ to, and I know that Jon wants it enough to believe that he can."

"Do you think they're wrong?"

"No, it's not that at all. I just think that all the evidence we've found so far doesn't point that way, and there's still so much we don't understand." Martin opens his mouth, and Sasha adds, "Don't get me wrong, I want to find out everything we can, I just… I think it's dangerous looking only for the answers we _want_ to find. You know how I almost quit the Institute after what happened to Gertrude?"

"Yeah. I remember that." That had been a rough few months for everyone; Martin still doesn't like thinking about it. But if Sasha's going to be the one to bring it up, then Martin's going to take the chance to ask something he wasn't brave enough to ask at the time. "Why didn't you, in the end?"

"I guess in the end I couldn't walk away," she says after a moment's thought. She meets his eyes with a wry smile. "I wanted to, you know I'm not all that brave, and paranormal researcher or not, none of us signed up for a job where getting murdered is a workplace hazard. But I just kept thinking about how this was the most real and tangible proof of the supernatural I'd ever encountered, and… I wanted to get to the bottom of it, no matter what I ended up discovering. And…" Sasha's measured, even voice falters. She lets out a nervous chuckle, pulling down the sleeves of her cardigan. "I kept thinking about Tim and Jon. Like, what if I quit and then one day I opened my news feed and found it was one of them that was found dead?" 

"You think--" Martin stutters, feeling like someone just threw a bucket of ice water over him. " _Christ,_ Sasha," he begs, "please don't say things like that."

It's not like it hasn't crossed Martin's mind before, in the past couple of years. But it's always been a worst-case-scenario, God-please-don't-let-this-happen sort of thought. The sort of thought that comes out of knowing that Tim's had a brush with death before already, that _someone_ wanted Gertrude dead and got what they wanted, and… well, letting that knowledge run away with him a bit. Knowing that it's something that _Sasha_ \- dependable, level-headed Sasha - has thought about too, and kept to herself…

"Sorry," she sighs, and looks it. "It just weighed heavy on my mind, you know? But, that's why I've never really said anything about any of this."

"You don't really think they're in - that they're in _danger_ , do you? Because of what they can do?"

Sasha doesn't say anything for a moment. Martin's heart beats against his ribcage.

"Well, really only mostly from themselves," Sasha says. She quirks an eyebrow at him, and says, "None of you boys have _any_ sense of self-preservation. You included, Martin."

Her tone is light enough that Martin's heart eases off a little.

"Oh, _thanks,_ " he says, with a shaky laugh.

Sasha flashes a grin at him, before her face settles back into something more thoughtful. 

"What about you?" she prompts. "You wouldn't have asked about our chances if it hadn't been on your mind."

She sounds like she actually cares about his answer. 

"I think…" he hesitates. "I feel like I have to? I have to believe we can make some sort of difference, in the end, that what we find out might end up helping _someone_ , or do _some_ thing, or - or, what's the point?"

Sasha's look of interest folds in on itself, her deep brown eyes full of fondness. She pushes off on one foot, her chair wheeling forward until she's close enough to Martin to reach out and put a warm hand on his upper arm, rubbing through his coat.

"You've got a big heart, Martin," Sasha tells him, genuine and affectionate. She gives his arm one last squeeze before she drops her hand, resting it primly on her lap. "Go on," she says, a gentle dismissal, "you should get home before it starts getting really dark. And… thanks for the chat. It actually felt good to get some of that off my chest."

The weight of Sasha's trust, this side of her he's only really caught a glimpse or two of before, settles somewhere deep in Martin's chest. It's heavy, but it's a good sort of heavy. It outweighs the part of him that wants to feel hurt about being told to leave.

"Yeah," he says. He stands up and wheels his chair back under the desk he stole it from. "Yeah, sure. Night, Sasha. See you tomorrow?"

Sasha gives him a little wave, the cold blue light of her screen reflecting off her skin as she turns back to her work. 

"See you tomorrow." 

~ ⌽ ~

**7th February, 2015**

"Where are you off to?"

Tim says it loud enough that Martin starts out of his work. He's not the only one; out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon scowling in Tim's direction. Sasha is standing up from her desk.

"Didn't I tell you?" she's saying, gathering a couple of sheets of paper together. "I've got a meeting with Gertrude."

"Oooh." Tim sounds like he's trying to inject as much suggestion as possible into that one sound. He leans in, his eyebrows almost in his hairline. "Alone in a room with Gertrude Robinson? Rather you than me, Sasha."

"What does she want to see you about?" Martin asks.

"Oh, you know," Sasha says, a smile playing around her lips. "She wants someone to vent to about Elias."

Tim barks out a delighted laugh.

"Yeah, right! Gertrude pulling you in to her office just for a bit of a stitch and bitch? Pull the other one, Sasha."

Martin wouldn't have put it that way, but Tim's right. He knows Sasha is just poking fun, but Gertrude is definitely not the sort of person who would call anyone into her office just for the sake of complaining about their boss. Even if her ongoing feud with Elias is the stuff of Institute legend.

"To be fair, mate, I'd almost believe it," Gerry's voice pipes up from the speakers on Tim's computer. He fizzes into view a moment later, long black trenchcoat and wry smirk coming together pixel by pixel. "You haven't been a fly on the wall for some of their conversations."

"See?" Sasha grins. "Gerry knows what's up." She laughs, and then says, "No, seriously, I'm sure it'll just be some kind of catch up on how the never-ending world investigation's going. You know she's been on that one for longer than anyone else."

Tim spins from side to side in his chair. Martin looks from him, to Sasha, and then behind Sasha, where he can see Jon now undeniably listening in on the conversation, looking interested in spite of himself. 

"Oh believe me, I know," Tim says. "Have you ever read her statement about how she ended up with," and he waves a hand at eye level, his own eyes flickering green for a brief instant. 

Martin has. For about a week afterwards, he couldn't open a door without his heart pounding.

"Even back then she was already looking into all of this spooky nonsense," Tim's saying. "Gertrude Robinson, ancient battle-axe and lifelong ghost hunter."

Gerry snickers. "Might end up being your ghost she's hunting next if she hears you lumping her together with the likes of Ghost Hunt UK."

There's a muffled sound and a sudden bang from Jon's direction; everyone looks over to find him rubbing his elbow from where he must have slipped and bashed it on his desk.

"Sorry," he says in a tense voice. Tim shoots Martin a puzzled look and then a shrug, and turns back to Sasha. 

"Come on, Gerry," she's protesting, "I liked that show back when it was still going. The team behind it really knew how to do their research. Did any of you ever see their mini-series about haunted pubs?"

Sometimes, Martin forgets that Sasha is the one out of them who actually found her way into this job out of a lifelong interest in the paranormal. He's heard of Ghost Hunt UK; thanks to this job, youtube keeps trying to recommend their videos to him, and he's vaguely overheard other people in the building gossip about the controversy surrounding the sudden hiatus in their content. But he can't imagine being the sort of person who looks up this sort of thing for fun in his free time. 

"Honestly," he says with a nervous laugh, "I erm, I try not to think about the supernatural after I clock out, so…"

"Nice for some." Gerry's voice is dry. Martin's stomach drops.

"Oh - oh, sorry, Gerry, I, I really didn't mean - I didn't think--"

"Relax, Martin, you're fine," Gerry cuts him off, not unkindly. He shrugs, his fall of black hair clipping through his shoulders in a way that's disconcerting to watch. "It's not like it's really that much of a change from before I was a computer."

That just makes Martin feel worse, really. Maybe it shows, because Tim swoops in after a moment, before things can get truly awkward.

"So," he says, voice low with faux gravitas. He clasps his hands together on the desk in front of him. "Sasha. How long do you want us to wait before we mount our heroic rescue mission?"

"In your dreams, Stoker," she says, rolling her eyes as she walks away from their little cluster of desks. A quiet, mocking _ooooooo_ comes from the depths of Tim's speakers. "This damsel is perfectly capable of getting herself out of distress without your help."

"So that's five minutes, then?" Tim calls after her with a shameless, cheeky grin.

Sasha turns partway across the office, walking backwards so she can fix Tim with her best _you're-so-full-of-it_ smirk.

"It's a meeting with our supervisor, not a duel to the death," she laughs. "Besides, I'm sharp enough to keep up with her and you know it."

Tim puts both his hands up in surrender to concede the point, and gives a little salute as she leaves. Martin watches the door to their department office swing shut behind her, and wonders.

Gertrude always leaves Martin on edge. It's not even that he's sure that, with her particular abilities, she must know he's not supposed to be here, even if she's never breathed a word about it. It's not even the way that it feels like it's impossible to get a read on her, or the coldness he sees in her eyes sometimes. He can't even explain it to himself; how sometimes it feels like Gertrude is playing a completely different game to the rest of them, or at least using a totally different board. It's not like he's even got anything to back up the feeling, considering he generally goes out of his way not to talk to Gertrude if he can help it.

He knows Sasha's right; if anyone in the building can keep pace with Gertrude, it's her.

That doesn't change how nervous he gets whenever she wants to talk to any of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm pushing my Martin+Sasha friendship agenda and i am pushing it _hard_ , folks
> 
> thank you once again to everyone who has read this far! my particular thanks to those who've taken the time to drop a comment or leave kudos. i've been struggling against the agents of the Buried out in the real world during the month of July so getting to read everyone's thoughts on what's going on in this fic has been the highlight of my day some days. <3
> 
> ALSO, an update on my thoughts regarding the scheduling of this fic: i'm playing with the idea of maintaining a weekly update schedule whilst the chapters that comprise a part are serialised, and then taking a week out of updating before the start of a new part. this should give me a chance to tell the story the way i want to and have time for editing/quality control between balancing real life stuff, while still holding me responsible for maintaining a reasonable update schedule for y'all! we'll see if the theory holds in reality. :')


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